Page 3 of Dreams and Desires

I stare at Jacob, anger clawing up my throat. He seriously didn’t bother mentioning I was coming? It burns, and I can't hold back. “A little warning would’ve been nice!”

Dad’s voice slices through mine. “Watch your tone.”

“Or what?” My voice shakes as tears push against the back of my eyes. “You’ll give me the silent treatment like before? Ground me? Punish me somehow? Go ahead! It's not like you haven't done it before! You and Mom already made my life miserable. Great parenting.”

Dad’s mouth opens, ready to fire back, but Jacob raises a hand. His voice cracks when he speaks. “I have advanced lupus. I need my sister.”

The room goes quiet. Not peaceful quiet but the ugly kind. The kind where everyone’s staring anywhere but at each other, wishing they were someplace else. My throat feels tight, like I swallowed glass. No one talks. No one even moves. We just stand there, stuck in a moment we all hate.

Mom’s shoulders drop a bit. Dad won’t even look at me, just stares at the floor, chewing on whatever words he’d rather say.

Jacob’s right. I hate admitting it, but he is. I shouldn’t be starting fights right now. Not today. Not when Jacob needs me. I came back. I chose this. Might as well suck it up and deal with my parents. Screaming at Dad felt good for about two seconds, but it didn’t fix a damn thing.

I swallow hard and speak. “I’m here for Jacob. That’s it. Nothing else.”

Mom nods but her eyes stay cold. “Do not expect the past to vanish.”

“It will not,” I say. “Right now we focus on him.”

They nod stiffly and scatter, slipping away like they can't bear another second near me. Jacob gently touches my elbow. “Come upstairs.”

He reaches for my suitcase, his hand shaky and thin, struggling to lift it even an inch. I grab it away. “Stop it, Jacob. I got it.”

I haul it up myself, step by step. Halfway up, my eyes catch on the staircase wall. It's covered with family photos—but not one of me. They completely erased me, like I never even existed. The ache punches through my chest hard and deep. But honestly? Screw it. Screw them.

My old room looks like a glorified closet now, boxes stacked to the ceiling like somebody tried to box my whole childhood and shove it out of sight. Bits of faded wallpaper peek between the cardboard, shelves sit empty, and whatever purge Mom and Dad went on left only the twin bed, the wardrobe, and the rickety dressing table.

Jacob drops onto the mattress and exhales. “Sorry it’s a wreck.”

I sit next to him and nudge his shoulder. “Forget it. Next time just give them a heads-up.”

He aims a small, tired grin my way. “Deal.”

We slide into a clumsy quiet until I clear my throat. “Remember when you swore the skate park was haunted?”

His laugh is barely there. “You roasted me for weeks but still showed up.”

“Couldn’t let you be freaked out alone,” I say.

We lose track of almost an hour, swapping stories about Grams and the few days that never hurt. The catch-up feels easy, like we never drifted. Eventually Jacob yawns, stretches, and stands. “I’m beat,” he says.

“Sleep well.”

“Night, Juniper.” He shuffles out, leaving the room.

Once Jacob is gone, I look around the room and it just feels weird being here… Again.

Boxes, boxes, dust. Quilt half hanging off. I shove the boxes in a corner, wipe the mirror with my sleeve, yank the quilt straight. Find a lone sock that looks like a dried slug, toss it.

Last box skids by the closet. My foot hits a loose board. Clunk. Heart does a hop. I crouch, pry it up. Under there—a band shirt, my old diary tucked tight inside.

I sit right on the floorboards. Crack the cover. Pages shout back at me. Cringe poems. Big feelings. Brian this, Brian that. I laugh once, then my eyes burn. Let a few tears drop, whatever.

Sniff, swipe nose on the shirt. Diary goes back in its hole. Board down. Like I was never here.

“I got this,” I mutter.

House moans a little. I kill the lamp, flop on the bed, quilt over my head. Think about the river. Cold water, Grams’s ashes twirling slowly.

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