Page 92 of You Were Always Mine
“You’re quiet tonight, Scar,” Dad says, reaching foranother handful of popcorn. His voice is casual, but his eyes linger too long.
I choke out a laugh. “Just tired.”
But Kai’s eyes cut to me instantly—sharp and knowing—like he can see right through the blanket, through my skin, straight into the secrets I’m suffocating with. His hand twitches where it rests on the armrest, knuckles white, like he’s one second away from ripping the phone right out of my hand.
Mum shifts closer, smoothing my hair. “You look pale, sweetheart. Are you sleeping okay?”
I nod—maybe too fast—because Dad frowns, and the buzzing under the blanket won’t stop, won’t stop, won’t stop. My throat feels raw, and my eyes sting. I can’t crack here, not with their faces lit by the TV glow, not with Kai watching me like a loaded gun across the couch.
He says nothing, though. Doesn’t give me away.
But his silence is worse than words.
Because I can feel it—every second I keep hiding Tyler’s messages, Kai is cataloguing my lies.
And when this movie ends, when Mum and Dad go to bed, I know he’s going to make me pay for every single one.
The living room glows gold from the lamps, bowls of popcorn dumped onto the coffee table, the faint fizz of soda cans cracked open. Mum’s laughing at something dumb on the screen, Dad shaking his head like he’s too dignified for a superhero film and still can’t look away. It almost feels normal.
Almost.
“Scarlett, pass me the salt,” Dad says without looking away, holding his hand out like I’m still ten.
I shove the shaker at him, and he grins. “Good girl.”
Kai, sprawled at the other end of the couch, snorts low enough that only I hear it. “She’s not a dog, Dad.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Dad fires back, making Mum laugh, but Kai’s eyes are on me when he says it—sharp and cutting. I feel it more than hear it.
“Don’t start,” Mum warns, wagging her finger like Kai’s still the troublemaker who used to ditch curfew.
Kai smirks, flicks a kernel of popcorn at me, and it bounces off my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mum. Scarlett can handle herself.”
“Barely,” I mutter, and Mum chuckles like it’s sibling bickering, not knives slipping under skin.
“You two,” she sighs, shaking her head, but her smile is soft.
I fake a smile back, chewing on a piece of popcorn that tastes like cardboard because my throat’s too tight. My phone buzzes in my pocket—once, twice. I press my hand to my thigh like I can crush it still.
“Who’s texting you this late?” Dad asks without turning. Casual.
My heart lurches.
Kai stretches out, drapes an arm across the back of the couch, his gaze sliding to me slow as poison. “Yeah, Scarlett,” he murmurs. “Who can’t get enough of you?”
The room’s warm, full of laughter, but I swear I’m freezing.
I force a smile when Mum tosses popcorn at Dad, when the laughter swells around the room like we’re nothing but a normal family. I even laugh with them, though my throat feels raw and my phone burns hot in my pocket, vibrating again and again with Tyler’s name flashing across the screen. I don’t look. I can’t.
Kai’s on the other end of the couch, legs spread in alazy sprawl that looks too calm. But his eyes cut over every few seconds, sharp and knowing, like he can feel the way my pulse is tearing through me. I pretend to be absorbed in the film, shifting and bringing my knees up.
“Scarlett?” Mum leans forward, voice softer now, less playful. “You’ve barely touched your popcorn. Everything okay?”
I nod too quickly, nearly choking on my fake laugh. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.”
Dad chuckles. “Tired at your age? You should be bouncing off the walls.”
“Leave her alone,” Mum says, swatting his arm, but her eyes stay on me—concern, suspicion—I can feel it digging into my skin.
