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I found myself standing there in the wreckage of what had once felt like the start of something meaningful, arms wrapped tightly around me as if that would keep my heart from spilling out onto the linoleum floor.
The kitchen still held the scent of garlic and seared meat, the plates half-cleared on the counter, and Trix's chew toy was forgotten in the corner, still mid-squeak. Everything appeared so normal, so domestic, and yet the air between us had become thick and suffocating, like someone had popped open a bottle of regret and let it seep into the room.
Mr. Fairchild hadn't shifted at all. He just watched me, his usual perfect posture starting to crack at the shoulders, hands hesitantly raised as if he didn't know whether to reach out to me or protect himself from whatever was coming.
