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Her mouth tastes like she’s been chewing on metal and feels like the last thing she drank was salt. The bed she’s in isn’t hers. The sheets smell sterile with none of the softness of genuine Egyptian cotton. Slowly, her eyes blink open to blaring overhead lights.
Searing pain forces her eyes shut. She throws an arm over her face to stop the light from hurting any worse. Beyond her head, she starts to notice the pulsing pain across the rest of her body. Most of it concentrates around her ribs, like she’s battered them in some way. But also her right knee, her hip, her shoulders, practically everything down to her toes.
“Mom?” says a nearby voice. What ? Again, someone says, “Claire? Are you awake?” The voice is from a young British girl, but Zara is an adult and doesn’t have a daughter as far as she knows. As her boss, she’d certainly know something like that.
A hand touches her right arm, and she jolts away from it. Her left arm flies off her face, letting her take in the room she’s in. One that definitely isn’t hers .
A young girl leans over her hospital bed with wide, eager brown eyes. Claire follows the sensation of her hand, finding an IV jabbed into her arm above it. “What…” Her voice is scratchy, digging its way out of a dry, unused throat.
“How are you feeling?” asks the girl. Looking at her, she doesn’t particularly look like anyone she knows. At best, one of the tens of faceless investors who filter in and out of the park every year.
“Where…” am I? The girl pastes a smile, pulling back her hand.
“He’s getting food. He’ll be back in a minute.” She shifts in her seat, pulling it a little bit closer. “Are you okay? Should I have a nurse come in?”
She opens her mouth to ask another question, who, and instead receives a fit of coughs that make her ribs feel like hell has just swallowed her. A cup of water is shoved in her face and forced upon her by the girl. She forces herself up, through another wave of agony, to take it. Every drop is gone in moments.
“I’m going to find a nurse,” says the girl. She makes a move to stand, but Claire grabs her arm.
“What happened?” she croaks.
She turns to her with a deep crease between her brows. A frown weighs heavily on her young face, aging her by years she hasn’t lived. “You crashed after we landed. When they were checking on us. It’s been about two days.”
Landed? Checking on us? Two days? The girl isn’t looking at her anymore. She’s looking down at her boots. “I’ll only be gone for a minute,” she says, pulling her arm out of Claire’s hold.
Racking her brain for a last memory is futile. The order of them feels disjointed and off. Events, she can remember. Hosting investors tours, working in her office, talking to Simon in Control. It’s cloudy, though. Disjointed pieces that paint a few pictures without a timeline.
The girl is gone for much longer than a minute. At least ten pass before the doors open again. She steps back in, holding a tray of food. A few steps behind her is none other than Owen Grady.
There’s something different about him. More than just hair longer than she remembers.
He rushes across the room to her, only stopping when he’s practically toppling over her bedside. His hand lunges for her cheek, caressing it. His smile takes up half his face and is dappled with relief. On instinct, she slaps him.
“I could have you sued for that!” she hisses. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Grady?”
He blinks. His smile falters. “Claire…” He starts, but something stops him. Something that looks like dawning shock, or maybe horror. Good. He should be horrified he acted like that towards her, his superior. “Hon, this isn’t really the time to joke like that.”
“ Hon?” she echoes in a shrill yelp. He’s staring at her, with such absurd earnest concern, that she laughs. “What’s gotten into you, Grady? Most days you at least have some sense of decency.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s not supposed to be!” He stares at her— studies her. Like how those overgrown lizards of his look at everything outside their cage.
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
“I don’t know. Where even am I? Why am I here?”
“What’s the last thing you remember,” he presses, firmer.
“I don’t know!” she barks. “Probably giving Verizon a tour of Paddock 9 or—“
The tray of food slams to the floor.
“What year is it, Miss Dearing?”
“2012.”
He needs to get Maisie out of this room. The moment it leaves her lips, there’s the chilling sensation that his gut was right. It was a lack of recognition in her eyes, not haze from medication.
Maisie stares blankly ahead, in the general direction of Claire and the doctor. Her fists are tightly clenched at her sides, trembling.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Her question is poised at the doctor, because she’s begun to pretend he and Maisie are a part of the furniture.
That woman in the bed isn’t their Claire. It’s Island Claire in all of her prickly glory.
“Can you tell me what your last memory is?”
“It’s… hard to tell.”
“I see.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, Miss Dearing, you appear to be suffering from post-traumatic amnesia.”
“Excuse me?” Her face is a tangled mess of terrified fury. A glare at a man doing his job. This Claire hasn’t yet figured out that it isn't a weakness to be human and have human qualities like injuries. Every piece of fear she has is being funneled into surface level anger.
There’s a dull ache in his heart. An impossibly vast swath of fond wistfulness for the woman she was and the woman she became.
“I’d like to take a few scans to see if there are any visible signs of damage. I doubt it would be anything severe, but I’d like to check.”
Her hard-set face contemplates the doctor’s request. Her stiff jaw, pouted lips pressed into a frown, tense and squared shoulders. She still believes she’s alone, left to fend for herself and fight off the external threat of every other person on this planet.
This Claire has forgotten she’s the sun two people revolve around.
You’re not my mother . It plays over and over in her head. You’re not my mother . That could’ve been the last thing she ever said to Claire.
They got out safely. Everything was going to be okay. It was supposed to have a happy ending. Her mom came for her. Her parents swooped in from nowhere to take her back home, because they cared more than she ever imagined they could.
Her mom was supposed to remember she has a daughter.
Claire stares through her.
This isn’t like the grief that’s followed her since she could walk; missing parents who she couldn’t remember the faces of. Feeling constant want tied with possibility that would never amount to anything.
It isn’t like her deep, world ending grief for her grandfather. He died— was murdered. She’ll never talk to him again, or get to ask him all the questions she’s been left with. There’s a hole inside her that she needs to expand around, one that will never go away.
Claire is alive. Claire is in a hospital room that she can’t bring herself to go back inside of. Her hand keeps hesitating on the handle, then jerking away because it can’t do it.
“She’s not going to bite,” says Owen, a few steps behind her. She didn’t take the revelation that she’s apparently with him very well, and had him all but banished from the room. Which Owen’s only partially listening to, still checking on her as much as he can without the threat of something being thrown at him.
“She’s not gonna welcome me, either.”
“Some part of her still knows you. She just doesn’t remember it yet,” he tries to assure, putting a hand on her shoulder. It could be hours, days, or weeks before it clicks back into place. There’s no way to know. Their only assurance is that only severe damage, which she didn’t sustain, would cause permanent loss.
Maisie angles away from him, away from the meaningless assurances stuck on his tongue. “That isn’t good enough.”
She outright refuses to go home with them. Which he gets, no matter how much it stings. This isn’t a Claire who remembers building a home from scratch together. She doesn’t remember early morning breakfast around the table, or hikes in the woods, or movies on Friday night. To her, he’s just an overly flirtatious co-worker with a mystery teenager.
They compromise with staying at Karen’s house. It’s a long, awkward process to get back into the states with Maisie in tow, but they manage it. Soon, they’re renting a car in Wisconsin and arriving in Claire’s hometown late in the afternoon.
They stayed here for a little while. When the trial had finally ended and all she wanted was some quiet. He keeps glancing at her, searching for that first spark of recognition. All he finds is weariness.
Maisie’s quiet in the backseat. She has been for the whole drive, as well as nearly all of the travel time. She’s got a pair of headphones on with an occasional faint burst of music escaping. It’s one thing to start over with her, but he imagines it’s entirely different when you’re completely forgotten.
Karen greets them in the car when they arrive. She starts with Claire, forcing her to open the door so she can fuss and chide. They told her, there’s no way they couldn’t, but it’s completely different for someone who could never be discarded like a sister.
For a second, he resents that. He resents her, because Claire doesn’t bat her away with wild eyes or look through her. But that’s unfair of him to ask. Of either of the sisters.
At least Claire’s alive . There could’ve been worse outcomes. At least.
He lets them have their moment, walking around to open Maisie’s door. He longs for suitcases to busy himself with grabbing, or groceries they might need. In the haste to get Maisie, they didn’t grab a single change of clothes. All either of them could think of was the girl who’d quickly become their entire life. All they have is a single bag of clothes they’d bought in Italy out of pure necessity.
“Come in. Come in. You’ll catch your deaths,” he catches Karen say, nudging Claire to the door with the expectation of him and Maisie being right behind them.
Inside, it’s barren in an unfamiliar way. Both of the boys are at college, and they’ve never stayed here without them down the hall. It’s like the ghost of Gray’s rambling and Zach’s video games persist.
Karen sets Claire on the couch, taking the seat next to her. There’s the same cornered look he’d seen in her earlier, but Claire doesn’t fight Karen. Instead, a layer of bewilderment paralyzes her to Karen’s whims. Owen takes a seat in the recliner a few steps away.
They weren’t on good terms until after the park. Friendly, occasionally. But this? Complete care and fussing? It’s become foreign to her.
“What the hell happened?” she asks, more to him than anyone else.
He shrugs. Anything else feels daunting. “Doctors say it could come back anytime. They couldn’t find any obvious brain damage.”
Claire glares at him like that’s an insult. Maisie retreats upstairs before he can ask her to stay.
“You really think you still work at the park?” asks Karen.
“Where else would I work?” she sarcastically answers. Karen briefly meets Owen’s gaze, helpless. Karen sighs. “Don’t do that. I don’t need your pity.” Claire makes a move to stand. Karen forces her back down.
“I’m not. I swear. I’m just… trying to understand. It’s a lot.”
Claire laughs without humor. “‘It’s a lot’? Well, I’m being told I’ve lost a decade of my life somehow and I woke up in Italy with no memory of how I broke a rib.”
“That’s not—“ Karen starts.
“Which room am I staying in?”
“You and Owen usually take the guest room at the end of the hall.”
Claire nods stiffly, standing. Karen physically and verbally protests, but she bats away the attempt to keep her down this time. Instead, she follows Maisie up the stairs. They both watch her disappear.
“I’m not used to her being like this again,” says Karen. Owen laughs weakly.
“The first thing she did when she woke up was slap me.”
“Owen—“
He shakes his head. “I get why she did it. I know this version of her. I love it, too. Because it’s still her in there. With all of her walls still up. But I keep wanting to tell her something, and I turn to look at her, and I…”
“It’s only temporary,” Karen assures. A reminder for the both of them.
“Yeah.” It doesn’t keep his heart from sinking.
In the second floor hallway, next to a framed photo of the boys is a framed photo of Aunt Karen, Claire, and her. They didn’t visit each other often, but they made the most of the times they did. The memory behind the photo is vivid and alive inside her head.
It’s them, wrapped tight in mountains of snow gear. Owen took the photo. Gray would’ve been somewhere down the hill they were sledding down. Karen wanted something of just Dearing girls .
As much as she’s a Lockwood, she’s a Grady and a Dearing. Those don’t have to be contradictory things. It’s hard to remember, but it’s the truth. Her mother made her to be loved, and she has two people willing to do that.
Except one of them doesn’t remember that.
She doesn’t notice another person coming up until she says, “That’s us.” Claire’s tone is distant. She’s observing the life of another woman who stole her face.
Maisie turns to watch her face. The recognition she wants doesn’t come. Only that confused, slightly agitated look which has become second nature to Claire’s face.
That’s not her mom. Her mom is unwaveringly genuine with every corny attempt at comfort. Her mom is only agitated when Dad forgets to take off his work boots inside or during the petty bickering that ends in him wrapping his arms around her. Her mom is happy, even when she’s having her bad days where everything feels like a reminder.
This version of Claire has an ever-present cloud of melancholy.
“That’s us,” Maisie confirms.
For the first time since she woke up, Claire truly looks at her. This stranger in her mom’s body investigates who she could possibly be.
“How old are…” The question fades between them.
“I’m 14.” Claire’s confused frown deepens. “You guys adopted me. I was 9. Almost 10.”
“Oh.”
Maisie gives a noncommittal hum, mostly to fill the buzzing silence. “You’ve got a teenager. Congrats.” She shrugs, feeling like an alien in her own skin.
“You know, I never—“ She stops herself abruptly, considering her words more carefully. She opens her mouth with a few false starts. “You must have… been special,” she settles with. “I didn’t think kids were in the cards for me.”
Maisie gives her a half-smile. “You didn’t intend to at first. You guys didn’t know what you were going to do with me. I didn’t… I couldn’t go anywhere else. I didn’t want to. I felt safer with you guys than with anyone else. So, you let me stay. And…” She kicks her foot at the carpet. “I don’t know. We started acting like a family.”
Claire tries to echo her smile with an awkward attempt of her own. Underneath the layers of strain and nerves is something genuine. She’s pretty sure there is. “I’m glad. You seem sweet.”
Genuine or not, it’s still not her mom staring back at her.
Deja vu permeates every inch of the house. She’s been here, walked these halls, slept in this room, but none of it has memories attached. She instinctively knows which drawer of the guest room has an extra blanket, but she can’t remember if she’s ever opened it.
As far as her memory goes, she hasn’t actually been in this house. Karen only moved here after the discovery of her second pregnancy. Both times she’s been back since, she stayed in a hotel because they were barely on speaking terms. Even less so after Mom’s funeral.
The town itself doesn’t have the same weight it used to. Every time she came back, it was trying to force her out and away. Now, it feels like a nostalgic memory. Her body remembers things that her mind doesn’t, and it’s the most unsettling phenomenon she’s ever experienced.
A knock on the open door draws her attention back into the living world. Owen stands in the doorway, shifting on his feet with uncharacteristic shyness.
“Grady,” she greets. His eyes are set firmly on the dresser next to her.
“I just wanted to say good night.” His words are slow, pointedly thought over in a way Grady is not . She, a woman half his size and without a decade of memories, scares him more than his raptors. “And to let you know you can, uh, always ask one of us if you need something. I’m gonna be in the room next door. If you need anything during the night.”
“Okay.”
“Okay,” he echoes. He continues to stand there, staring holes into the worn wooden dresser.
Whoever this man is, it isn’t Grady. The years have taken the most brash, uncouth person she’s ever met and made him docile.
Or, again, maybe that’s only her doing. He seemed perfectly himself before he realized what happened to her.
“Do you need something?” she asks when the tension of silence becomes overbearing.
“No?”
“Then why are you just standing there?”
“Oh,” he says, as if just realizing. “I’ll, uh, leave you alone then.” His body reanimates itself like he’s been stuck in stasis. “I’m in the next room. If you need anything.”
“You said that. Twice.”
His jaw twitches. He nods, retreating away from her.
Honestly, she doesn’t know what he wants from her. In the memories she has, all he’s done is bother and squabble with her over any petty thing he can conjure. He turns in everything late, he makes jokes at inappropriate moments, and he’s blasé about any protocol that doesn’t involve possible death. Even then!
How she could ever get along with that is mind boggling. He’s attractive, but there has to be something else if she’s supposedly raising a child with him. She doesn’t like children. Unless she had a lobotomy at some point, it’s completely unfathomable.
Even with the boys both out of the house, her morning routine hasn’t changed much. She still rises with the sun to enjoy her lazy early mornings before the office. Around 6, she quietly stalks down the stairs only to find Claire already awake and sipping coffee at the kitchen island.
“What are you doing up?” asks Karen.
“Couldn’t sleep.” Her eyes follow Karen’s journey behind the counter and to the fridge. “What are you doing up?”
“I do have a job, you know. I’m not swimming in vacation days.”
“Right.” Claire takes a large, long sip of her coffee. She’s brought up questions about her job since waking up a couple days ago, but how do you answer that? How do you even begin explaining the events of that day, let alone the current state of the world. They're lucky she’s been too distracted with her memories to open the news.
“What are you thinking for breakfast? Pancakes sound okay?”
Claire scoffs. “Hard pass. Those are basically pure calories. I already seem to have put on a few pounds.”
Obsessive diets were something Karen was happy to see go. She’s a lot healthier now than she ever was then.
“C’mon it’s one meal, and you look fine.”
“You should listen to her. She’s a smart woman,” says Owen, announcing himself. They look up in unison, finding him lingering in the hall. “One cheat day isn’t going to do anything. Plus, you look great.”
“And that means so much coming from you,” comes her sarcastic retort. She turns away, muttering something close to would sleep with anything with a heartbeat.
Owen falters for a moment, quickly regaining himself and joining them. He stops short of the island, like a physical bubble pushes him to the edge rather than the middle where Claire is.
“And how’d you sleep?” Karen asks.
“Like shit,” he says with a self-deprecating smile. Claire wrinkles her nose.
Karen flashes a sympathetic look. They’ve had clashes of their own — particularly how fast Claire and him fell into a relationship, then how he broke her little sister’s heart — but she’s never doubted he loves her sister. He isn’t a subtle man.
He might not even realize it; the naked longing on his face when she’s turned away from him. In the same vein of the naked affection stapled to his face when they first visited for the holidays years ago. Only then, he was meeting her gaze outright, and she echoed a shyer version of it.
“If we’re… together ,” she spits the word, “then how did it happen?” She lays the question out when Karen, their buffer, has left for work, leaving them abandoned in the living room.
Her tone makes it seem absurd. Like this is going to be the question that finally breaks his elaborate ruse to… what? Ask her out? Baby trap her with a 14 year old?
“Well, it took some time.” She raises a brow. “We had a first date. Do you remember that far?” She shakes her head. “It was pretty bad. You didn’t talk to me for a few months.” For his own safety, he avoids any mention of board shorts.
“That sounds right.”
He smiles, briefly. “Yeah.”
“But that’s not where it ends, is it?”
He shakes his head. “There was an, um, problem we had to work on.” Understatement. “It forced us to get over ourselves. We made a good team. I said we should stick together, and you— Well, you didn’t object.” He shrugs. “So, we did.”
How much to reveal weighs heavy on his shoulders. Would it be worth it to tell her about the park? To put those thoughts freshly in her head when it was so hard to move past them? When she remembers, it’ll all come back swiftly and painfully. Would it be cruel to make her anticipate that?
On the other hand, she’d want to know. Is it even a choice he should be making for her? She’ll understand why he hasn’t, when she’s back, but the Claire in front of him would want to know. This Claire would be furious he’s keeping secrets about herself from her, even if the Claire who lived it wouldn’t be.
It’s not as simple as loving the woman she’ll become. The separation between them is only in the nuance of what they’ve lived. She’d be hurt if she knew he was lying to her, even if by omission. This Claire is used to being undermined by men at every turn while she outshines them in every way, and she’s equally used to betrayals from the people closest to her.
He doesn’t have the heart to join those ranks, even if only for a few more days.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because there’s a lot I don’t want to tell you.” She narrows her eyes. He gives a long, tired exhale. “But there’s a lot you’d want to know anyways.”
Her world shatters into glass shards around her with every word. In her head, she knew something had to have happened. Simon wasn’t contacting her, and neither was Zara.
But she’d also had the stupid hope that maybe she simply had a different job now. Not that the park was completely gone.
Her life’s work. Utterly, irreparably gone.
He won’t tell her in clear words what happened, just that a large dinosaur escaped and lots of damage was done, yet his silence is admission enough. She had to have some fault in it. It’s a strangely sweet sentiment from Grady, trying to shield her from her own flaws, but a park doesn’t break without its Operation’s Manager failing in some way.
She nods and hums at the appropriate times while he rips her world in half.
“Are you alright?” he asks once he’s reached the end of what he’s willing to freely give. His tone is gentle and soothing. Deeply earnest with concern she hasn’t earned.
“I’ll need time.” She’ll need an entire bottle of tequila. She doesn’t like the stuff, but the drink pops into her mind.
“I’m here if you want me.” It hits her painfully hard in the chest. She doesn’t get it . How to deal with this evolved version of Grady. A guy who wears his heart freely, and keeps staring at her like he means the things he says.
She knows how to deal with the Grady in her memories. The guy who only wants a night of her body and to bother her. All of those playboy types are the same in that way. In a vacuum, she could even understand it. She’d be bored enough to take the offer, and of course he’d never say no having the boss , but it would end by the morning, and she’d probably regret the weakness of it all.
There’s no world where that should turn into this: a man who lingers on her.
She makes an excuse that’s forgotten by the time it leaves her lips, then retreats to her room where she can lock herself away.
She slides down the closed door with a pensive frown. Her heart bangs harder than usual.
It’s not only that this Grady is breaching unfamiliar territory. It’s that she doesn’t mind it when he goes how are you ? He keeps saying these things like he wants to know. And she doesn’t hate it. It’s terrifying. He keeps acting like she means something, and she doesn’t hate it.
“Why would you tell her that!” Maisie shouts at him. Hours have passed, and Claire’s been locked in her room since.
They're in the kitchen for lunch. Or, they were having lunch until Maisie found out why Claire wanted space from them. Owen stands, leaning against the kitchen counters with his arms crossed over his chest. Maisie occupies the same seat Claire did.
“She would’ve wanted to know.”
“Yeah, and now she’s not going to talk to any of us again! She’s going to stay in her room! Great job!” He’s comforted Claire more than a few times after an outburst like this. His best advice was always to not take it personally. She’s just emotional and full of puberty angst.
He’s trying to remember that.
“Don’t use that kind of tone with me,” he says, warningly.
“I don’t care. You made mom sulk!” she snaps, so viciously she doesn’t notice the M-word slip.
“It’s hard and a lot to process, but this version of Claire would want to know. It would’ve been worse if she found out from somewhere else.” Internally, he knows it was the right choice. But watching her face fall, then her retreat into herself, he regretted it just as much. No winning move in sight.
“Or maybe she never would have, and she’d wake up before any of this was an issue!”
“Maybe,” he concedes. Maisie holds out her anger for a few more seconds. Then, she deflates into a shapeless glob of limbs on the kitchen island. He wipes a handover his face, sighing. “Look, I don’t know what the right move is. To any of this. I don’t know if there are any. I’m just trying to…”
Claire’s steps upstairs are as quiet as they are deafening. Maisie’s head perks up. He listens for them, hearing her journey and finding the exact moment she makes a move for the stairs.
They’re waiting on her. Sitting in stasis until she turns the corner with a hard expression. She catches sight of Maisie first. It’s noticeable in her softening gaze. The firm line of her frown doesn’t change - that’s her armor - but her eyes do.
“Hello,” she says. Her eyes dart between them, still somewhat feral, but less so than the first day she woke up.
“Hey,” he returns.
Her eyes glide to the door. “I’m going out.”
“Alone?” She nods stiffly. “You sure you want to do that? It’s pretty cold, and—“
“I’m sure, Mister Grady.” He’s in no position to stop her. As much as he wants to keep her close after the last few days, he’s not her keeper.
“Dinners at 6.” She nods again. With that, she slips outside without so much as a coat. Maisie sinks back down.
When she was growing up, she spent most of her days alone. Friends didn’t come easily nor did they stay for long. The island wasn’t much different in that regard.
To clear her mind, she walks. On the island, it was a morning run around the resort golf course. She’d do laps around it, early in the morning when the guests were either asleep or trying to beat the lines for the dinosaurs.
Everyone in the hospital looked at her with pity. Karen looks at her like a wounded animal needing nursed back to health. But Owen and Maisie keep looking at her like she’s a punch to the stomach.
Her feet pound across the concrete sidewalk of the neighborhood. It’s only cold if she stops for more than a few moments.
This is why she doesn’t try anymore. Eventually, something will happen, and everyone will start looking at her like she’s broken . They’ll be disappointed that she can’t be something she isn’t, and suddenly no one is happy.
She's not weak. Their pity is wasted on her.
What she loves about running is when it starts to strain her muscles. That pure knowledge of cause and effect that makes her feel like she’s gained something from it. She must not be running enough if the strain comes this quickly. Her strides become longer and faster.
She’s apparently a mother now. Accidentally, but willingly. She’s not mother material. There’s a natural maternal nature to people like Karen that she was born lacking. Where Karen dreamed of family life, her ambitions were larger than life.
A child didn’t fit in that. Not only did she lack the ability to nurture, no one would take a mother seriously in the high echelons of power. Specifically a single mother. No partner would stand by while she climbed the ranks, either. That lesson was brutal, at first, but she’s come to terms with it. People are fickle, therefore she needs no one except herself.
Without a partner to raise a child with, the whole question of children became void, anyways. It would never be in the cards for her.
How much had to have changed to make this possible? How much could she have possibly changed?
What would’ve made her change?
The street is surprisingly unchanged from her youth. All of their town has barely aged a day since she left for college. Like a time capsule of when things were the easiest they’d ever been.
She hates it here.
Karen is quietly pissed when she arrives home and Claire isn’t there. How could he let the amnesic leave the house? Again, he reminds them that no force on Earth could contain Claire Dearing when she wants something. Anything short of barricading each window could not even delay her.
Plus, she used to live here. The chances of her getting lost are slim.
They're not necessarily mad at him, he rationalizes. They’re worried about Claire, which is getting directed at him. Doesn’t mean he has to like it.
Claire arrives back half an hour after Karen’s gotten home, which is hours after she left in the first place, with a bright red nose and flushed cheeks. Her greetings are short and sparse as she hunts down a water bottle from Karen’s fridge.
It’s still a little while until dinner’s finished cooking. Despite that, they all would’ve waited if she’d taken an hour longer.
The meal is as quiet as her arrival. Throughout the meal, Claire nudges her food around more than she eats it. Maisie scarfs the whole thing in record time before sulking away to the living room. Karen dines peacefully as if nothing is out of the ordinary.
“How was your day?” Karen asks Claire.
“As good as you’d expect,” she says, eyes only briefly glancing up from her full plate.
“How was your walk?” She forces a hint of levity to the question, as if to make up for Claire’s lack of an answer.
“Enlightening,” she says dryly.
“Did you visit anywhere special?”
Claire meets her eyes. “Since when do you care?” It isn’t a particularly malicious question. Her tone is snide, but not mocking.
Karen’s face falls like she’s been struck. “Claire—“
Claire holds up a hand. “Sure, we clearly moved on at some point. But I don’t remember any of that. The last thing I remember is you pulling me aside at our mother’s funeral and telling me I should’ve visited her more . So, if you’ll do me this one favor, stop acting like nothing happened. I don’t want your pity.”
Karen stares at her, mouth agape.
“Claire—“ he starts.
“Don’t you dare, Grady. You have no room to speak. You shouldn’t even be here! I am not your girlfriend. I don’t care what you seem to think. I. Don’t. Know. You,” she states with lethal clarity. “I can’t imagine what possibly could’ve happened for me to give you, of all people, a chance.”
“Claire!” Karen chides.
He watches her, a bystander in his own body. She’d said something similar, once, when they fought so badly they didn’t speak for half a year. If it felt like a bullet wound then, now it’s gangrenous. The type of wound that kills skin so quickly it requires an amputation to save the body.
“If you say so,” his body says for him. A half-hearted quip to make the burn dampen. It doesn’t work very well.
Her nostrils flare with barely concealed rage. She’s always reminded him of Blue. They’ve thrown a raptor in a cage, and are reaping its consequences. Not that they have any better options until she’s her again. Which is the most frustrating part.
She stands. The chair pushes out with a loud scrape against the wood floor. “Thank you for dinner.”
Maisie doesn’t hear the argument itself, but she hears a raised voice. Claire doesn’t raise her voice. Claire is unbelievably patient to the point it annoys her.
Maybe that was why she’d always push her. Always testing to see if there was a line she could cross that Claire wouldn’t forgive her for. There had to be something that would finally make her realize Maisie isn’t what she wants. All she’s found is evidence that line might not exist.
Claire scolds, chides, and teaches, but she doesn’t raise her voice at Maisie. Ever.
The argument is followed by someone, probably Claire, storming up the stairs and shutting a door behind them. Distantly, she hears the clack of dishes being gathered.
More than anything, she wants to know what could’ve made Claire so upset. It couldn’t have been finding out about everything, because Owen already did that. So, it had to have been something else. Or maybe she’s still stuck on the park and the walk outside did nothing.
She slips off her headphones to listen for anything else. Nothing. There’s no sound of Aunt Karen and Owen talking downstairs, or anything from Claire.
Hesitantly, she slips off the bed and towards the hall. Hesitantly, because she has no idea what she’ll find if she seeks Claire out. This is a Claire she doesn’t know. She’s not sure if her mom is buried there or not.
She taps her knuckles on the door. No response. She tries again. Nothing.
Bone-deep worry adds to her nerves. There’s no denial. There’s no admission, either. Her hand hesitates on the handle.
Her mom has to be in there, somewhere.
Claire’s back is to the door. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, facing a window with its curtains still down. The open door doesn't change anything. Nor does Maisie shutting it change anything.
Slowly, she approaches Claire. “Hey.”
Claire startles, then. Glances from the corner of her eye, and sags to a minimal degree. “It’s you.”
“It’s me.”
Claire doesn’t offer anything else, so Maisie takes a seat beside her. She can’t see anything through Karen’s floral curtains, which means Claire is just staring to stare at something. Whatever.
Her face is somewhere between relaxed and catatonic. Not quite joyful enough to be mistaken for contentment in any degree of the word. It reminds her of adrenaline shock, she realizes. The face she recognizes from the aftermath of Lockwood Manor, where nothing had hit them yet but everything had gone to hell.
“What happened?” she dares to ask.
“I said some things.”
“Did you mean them?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice is dripping with sensarity. “I don’t know,” she repeats, quieter. Her eyes are red, Maisie suddenly notices.
“It’s tough,” she offers, shrugging. Claire mindlessly nods along.
“I don’t know how to do this the right way.”
Maisie frowns. Contemplates for a moment. “I don’t think that exists.”
“Perhaps.” She sighs. Long and exhausted. “But if there’s a wrong way, I’m doing that.” She turns to Maisie. Studying her face like trying to memorize it. “I’m sorry I took away your mom.”
“But you’re right here.”
Claire puffs out a breathy laugh, shaking her head. “I’m not your mom.” Her lips curl into a small, weary smile. “I’ve just stolen her skin for a moment. But I’m not…”
She lets that thought ruminate before voicing her next question. “Is that what you guys fought over?”
Claire winces. “You heard that?”
“Mhm. Whole neighborhood might’ve.”
“That’s…” Claire pinches the bridge of her nose. “That’s great. Just perfect.” Her hand falls away, into her lap where it fiddles with the material of her pants.
“Is it?”
“Were we happy?”
Maisie rears back. But Claire is earnestly asking, with an expression so hesitant to hope. She’d lie, if the truth wasn’t already close enough. She’d do anything to keep her face from dropping.
They were happy in most ways. If she could cross the bridge on her own, she wouldn’t have a single thing to complain about. It just so happened that the bridge issue had gotten too big and overflowed too quickly.
When Claire asks that, she thinks about summer in the woods with Owen hunting for lizards under bark slabs to add to her field journal. Or when she was too afraid to sleep on her own at first so they bought a nightlight and Claire read a book until she drifted off. Or how Claire likes to linger in the kitchen when Owen is cooking despite them all knowing she’s of no use there.
“Very.”
Her dream is hazy in the details. She’s in Costa Rica. It’s a hotel room that’s shabbier than what she’s usually in.
There’s a man with her. Owen, who looks more like how she remembers him with a deeper tan and closer cropped hair. They aren’t doing anything in the dream beyond laying together.
His hand keeps threading itself through her hair while she rests her cheek to his chest. Her body is curled close with a leg thrown over his. She looks up at him, finding that he’s been looking at her the whole time with a small, adoring smile.
Her body is alight with nervous optimism. She won’t let her face expose that yet. She’s cautiously laid over her life to him, and would let him take her heart if only he asked. He’s gentle with her, though, taking no more than what she offers first. She is nearly in love with him.
The remains of that dream follow her after she’s been awake for hours. She wakes up abruptly, and can’t fall back asleep. While the feeling itself has faded, she can vividly remember what it was like to be on the verge of falling for him.
The voice of Claire Dearing, Operations Manager, tells her to get a grip. She can’t seriously be enamored with the simple act of someone caring about her. She can’t be that utterly pathetic that she’d give in to anyone who showed her a crumb of empathy. Nothing she’s seen proves he won’t toss her out the moment he gets bored. Or when he realizes she isn’t who he remembers.
As if her outburst yesterday hadn’t guaranteed it. She waited for Karen to barge in, to tell her to find another place to sleep. It never came. They’d left her alone completely, and it’s what she wanted, but she hated it.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
She makes enough coffee for herself, Karen, and Owen which is as close to an apology as they’ll get. Because she isn’t completely wrong. She isn’t!
She’s working with the memories she has, and she won’t apologize for that.
But she didn’t have to say it like that, she supposes. They’ve been trying, much more than she has, which has to be worth some sort of counter effort. Or something like that.
Owen comes down first with a tense frown plastered over his face. Once he catches sight of her, it lifts into something distractingly neutral. His eyes are beginning to show signs of exhaustion in the form of dark under shadows.
She nods her head towards two covered cups on the counter, taking a sip of her own mug. “It’ll be pretty hot still.”
He takes a large gulp without flinching. “That was awfully nice of you,” he comments blankly. He isn’t mad, from what she can tell. She doesn’t know what he is with her. Disappointed she isn’t what he wants, maybe, but that’s a given. Anything else hides below the surface. “You remembered how I like it.”
Only a little bit of creamer and a pinch of sugar. Unlike Karen who likes a little bit of coffee with her sugar. She hadn’t thought of it like that in the moment, only acted on instinct. Her body moved for her because it knows things she doesn’t.
She takes a long, calming breath. “It was an easy enough assumption. You seem like someone who’d drink motor oil if it wouldn’t kill you.”
He cracks a tiny smile. “Nah, I’m more of a petroleum guy.”
She wrinkles her nose in faux-distaste. “Trust you to like the cheap stuff.”
“In this economy?” He shuffles to the opposite site of the kitchen island, resting his elbows on the edge. “Must’ve hit your head harder than we thought.”
Messy hair in the morning sun, she knows how he could’ve caught her eye in another lifetime. Millionaires in suits are easy, but rough and tumble has always been her vice. Since she was fifteen getting distracted from AP US History homework by dirty girls at softball practice.
“Did you sleep alright?” he asks softly, as if the other day was a fever dream. She studies his face for signs of mockery. His face is carefully blank, warding off what openness they might’ve had with each other, yet it isn’t mean.
“Fine.” It’s sharper than she intends. She’s mad at herself. Not him. Mad that she’s getting bits and pieces instead of a full story. “Good enough,” she amends. “You?”
He lifts a shoulder. “I’ve had better.
Their conversation ends there, but the silence isn’t as overwhelming as it should be. He’s an enigma to her. Her logic says he’s her downfall. Yet, she doesn’t mind this moment where they sip coffee in easy silence.
Karen barely spares her a glance as she leaves for work. She takes the coffee, silently striding out the front door. Whether or not that’s acceptance or avoidance sits heavy on her mind.
A couple hours later, much of which has been spent in silence, she asks, “What was our life like?” Who am I without the park , is precisely what she wants to ask. Except, that is a loaded gun which could easily misfire.
They're back in the living room, one of the two rooms in this entire house which feels like common ground. On the same couch.
“Pretty good,” he says with a fond, nostalgia-glazed look in his eye. “We have a cabin. Out in California.”
“I remember.” They’d said something to that extent when they were planning to leave the hospital. She hadn’t been listening very closely. They could’ve had a house on Mars for all she cared. Her main concern was not being trapped in a house alone with Owen Grady.
It hasn’t been so bad.
“Our jobs aren’t too demanding. We spend a lot of time with Maisie, usually.” She doesn’t say anything, but he reads her next question effortlessly. “You, uh… Protect endangered animals,” he says, weighing each word. “I do, too. But in a different way.”
“So, we’re still co-workers?”
His mouth quirks into a smile. “Not really. Completely different, actually. But we have the same goal, so, I guess, in a way, you could say that.”
She hums. It’s strangely dissatisfying. The feeling quickly evaporates under the questions of everything else. “And we’re… happy like that?”
He shrugs with one shoulder. “I am. And you tell me you are.” He can’t mask the strain of hesitation in voicing the second part. This lack of boldness bothers her more and more with how little it matches the image in her head. Experience tells her its an act, it’s always an act, while instinct knows it isn’t. “What?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
He gestures to her face. “You’ve got a look, though. You’re thinking something.”
What isn’t she thinking about? What has her life become? What the hell happened to her to change her so drastically? Why aren’t Simon and Zara around anymore? It’s every how, why, what, where, and when she can fathom all at once, every moment of the day. Worst of all, he still has a sympathetic look in his eyes. “You mean it.”
“Huh?”
“You really mean it.” She admits it, finally, to herself and aloud. That this, whatever strange affection he may have for her, is not going to disappear. It’s stupid, really. Logically, if they have a child then he’d care, but it’s never processed as real. Tangible. Not until she felt it from that one glimpse back in time. “You really love her, don’t you?”
“I love you .”
She shakes her head. “No, you love who I become.”
“I love you,” he repeats, firm. “I love the woman I met, and I love the woman she became. It’s all just you.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re saying you’d still love me if I never remembered anything?”
“Yes.” There’s no hesitation. He reaches to hold her face, and she lets him despite her better judgment. “I’d miss you like hell, but goddamn, of course.”
With half-hearted denial, she says, “You’re such a liar.”
“Not about that.”
Claire Dearing does not suffer the folly of men’s fleeting affection. They come and go, which is how she likes it. They do not tempt her curiosity or loiter in her thoughts. Those are weaknesses she cannot afford.
But she’s beginning to believe there is something wholly different unfolding in front of her. Whether it’s the longing to be wanted or old affections resurfacing, he is proving harder to shake than anyone else.
She’s leaned closer than she realized, and only notices when her nose has brushed his. She jerks back while placing a hand on his chest. Her heart drums in her chest. Exposed and embarrassed, she keeps her eyes pointed over his shoulder.
“Not yet.”
He rests his hand over the one pushing him away. “Alright. Whatever you want.” Traitorously, she’s soothed with the touch. Fingers hovering above her own, not quite pressing into her hand yet not hovering above.
It’s less awkward than it should be. They're at the store with a grocery list Karen had apparently given Owen, and it’s not nearly as uncomfortable as it should be. She’s more demeaned by how Karen doesn’t think she’s capable of managing grocery shopping on her own.
Losing memories doesn’t mean she’s forgotten how to drive a car or use a credit card. Yet, her sister clearly thinks she’s too inept to manage it, so it’s been given to this practical stranger to manage.
That isn’t fair. He’s not a stranger to Karen, and he’s barely a stranger to her. But he isn’t Karen’s very capable sister, either.
To his credit, he brought her along. Encouraged her to leave the house, even. After exchanging some silent conversation with Maisie over whether she’d come or not. Which she opted not to. Claire doesn’t blame her.
They’re investigating the merits of which yogurt brand to get when there’s a sudden, “Claire Dearing! In the flesh.”
Her body stiffens like a cornered animal. Fear pulses through her body, without clear reason. Owen’s hand ghosts over the small of her back in an oddly soothing move. It seems instinctual, because his attention is focused on the vaguely familiar bottle-blonde approaching them.
It takes a mildly rude amount of staring for her to catch on. Marissa Mayweather , they went to school together.
“Never thought I’d see you back in town,” she greets with an overly large smile. “What with all the drama you seem to get yourself into.” She laughs heartily, like it’s a joke. Claire doubts it is.
Still, she pastes on an amicable smile and hums. “Life stays interesting.”
“I’ll bet. You’ve made the news a few times since I last saw you. Your boyfriend, too.”
She’s been in the news a few times, usually for fluff pieces around the park, yet she doubts that’s what she’s referring to. That would be too close to a compliment.
His hand curls to her hip, holding it in a light grasp that’s more for him than her. He’s making a good show at playing friendly, but one sideways glance exposes the tension in his jaw and flat line of his lips.
For every time they’ve squabbled, he hasn’t worn this type of expression. Where he’s angry, genuinely aggrieved, defensive maybe, and trying to stay reserved. She realizes, when he’s annoyed with her, he’s still gentle in it. That’s what this is missing.
“Like I said. Life stays interesting.”
“I’ll say. I have two kids now. Boy and a girl. Best thing I’ve ever done with my life. They’re a handful, but being a mother is just worth it. You unlock a whole other side of life. I thought a nice house and car was all you really needed, but then I had my oldest and the world just changed…”
Claire zones out midway through. It’s nothing she hasn’t heard from Karen. Even worse, it’s coming from a woman who once had her boyfriend ask Claire out to prom as a joke. Which she’d turned down because she valued a man’s ability to shower over his supposed social standing.
She catches Owen’s eye covertly, hiding a smile while he matches her own incredulousness.
“Wouldn’t you agree?”
Claire blinks. “Pardon? I didn’t catch that last part.”
“Motherhood is just the greatest reward. Wouldn’t you agree?” It’s laid out like a trap. She doesn’t actually care. She wants Claire, hard-ass, ice queen of a woman Claire Dearing, to admit she’s failed in some way Marissa hasn’t by being childless.
This is why she hates this place. A whole hoard of people who’s entire worth hinges on being better than their neighbor. Everyone knows everyone, therefore everyone knows every way in which you’re failing to meet their standards. This is exactly why she fled it the first chance she got.
Nobody would’ve acted like this at the park. They were much too afraid of her to even graze the surface of this type of condescension.
“Yes. It looks great on her, doesn’t it?” says Owen with an exaggerated smile. It takes a conscious effort to hide her what are you doing frown.
“Excuse me?” says Marissa.
“She’s just glowing , isn’t she? We’re over the moon. Couldn’t be happier to give our oldest a younger sibling.”
Oh, he is not—
Marissa’s face falters. She masks it over with an absurdly large grin. “Oh?”
Owen hums. He lifts his arm up and lays it across her shoulders in an exaggerated fashion. “Mhm. Might have to do some renovation to make sure we have room, but it’s a good thing she got that promotion. Money won’t be any issue.”
“Isn’t that great.”
“It really is. And our daughter finally convinced me into getting a boat since we live on a lake. She’s so excited to take her baby sibling out on it when they’re old enough. I think she might be more excited than us.” He laughs lightly.
“Wow. That’s great.” Marissa pulls her phone out of her purse and makes a sloppy attempt at surprise. “Oh, it’s almost my son's softball game. He’s their star player so we can’t miss this. See you both later.”
As soon as she’s out of sight, Claire backhands him in the chest and pulls away from his arm. “What is wrong with you?” she hisses quietly with her arms crossed.
He shrugs, unphased. “It got her to leave quickly, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, and now this whole town is going to think I’m pregnant ! With your child!”
“Would you rather it be someone else’s hypothetical baby?” he asks, bemused. “Because I don’t think a reputation as a cheater would be much better,” he rationalizes calmly, as if talking about what they’re having for dinner. Which they should be doing, instead of lying to her old classmates for fun.
“I would rather not be pregnant at all. Thank you very much.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “God, you’re insufferable. No. You’re insane.”
“You tell me that a lot.” The side of his mouth picks up into a smirk.
“At least I haven’t completely lost my mind in the future.” She lets out a long breath, dropping her arms to her sides. “The new boat was a good touch, though.”
His eyes light up. “I considered saying new car, but a boat seemed more expensive.” A degree more serious, he adds, “Those types hate to see other people happy. Especially the people who they think don’t deserve it. The more of that you throw at them, the quicker they scatter.”
This is what that version of herself saw, isn’t it? Beyond the bravado, there’s something deeply perceptive that she’s worked to ignore, isn’t there? His hackles raised the moment her back stiffened, didn’t they?
She doesn’t need it. Never has. But it’s… nice. Nice to be wanted, and nicer to be noticed.
“You have layers, don’t you, Grady?”
Of course, he ruins it by winking. “Wouldn’t you like to find out.”
Dinner itself is another quiet affair where words stick to her tongue despite her mind trying to force them. Owen makes a clumsy excuse for him and Maisie to leave once they’ve all finished eating, leaving Karen and her alone with the dishes.
They work in silence in the kitchen, scraping scraps off plates and packing leftovers into fridge containers. It offers some relief that she doesn’t have to look at Karen while she does this. If she focused harder, maybe she could forget where she is at all.
No. She can’t do that. Karen is so close , after years of near radio silence, and something is so clearly different between them. The last time they saw each other Karen was furious with her. Angry that she was a day later than she should’ve been because of an important meeting, angry that she wasn’t in the country when it all happened, angry that she called less.
Claire was angry that she had the nerve to say this over their mother’s still-warm body. As if it somehow hurt less because of those things. It wasn’t like either of them had a perfect relationship with Lilian Dearing to begin with. It wasn’t like Claire was the first one to flee to college at the first chance she got, and at least she didn’t promise her younger sister she’d find a way to bring her with her, and it wasn’t like she—
A sharp piece of chipped plate jabs her palm. Looking down, she’s gripped the bottom too hard, and a new sizable crack shows. The sharp edge is teasing the skin of her hand, drawing a small string of blood. “Shit.”
Karen’s head perks up, then her face pales. “Claire,” she chides. She pulls the plate from Claire’s hands, and discards it on the counter without a second glance. “What’s gotten into you?” Karen pulls her hands closer to her frowning face to examine the cut. It isn’t deep, but it’ll sting in the morning.
“Why did you say it?”
Karen looks up. “Say what?” Claire stares back at her. Karen sighs, realization dawning. Claire drops her gaze back to their hands. “I missed you.”
Claire yanks herself away. “Missed me?” She spits the words.
Karen steps forward and reaches back for her hands. Claire lets her keep them. Not that Karen deserves it.
“Nothing you said felt like missing me .”
“I was never mad at you. I was mad I couldn’t keep that promise. You’re my baby sister. How could I not miss you?” Karen reaches for her cheek, and for a few moments, Claire lets herself lean in. Then, she remembers herself and shoves her head in the opposite direction.
“Well, you did a shit job at showing it.”
“I didn’t realize how much I’d miss you, at first. Once I did, I had so many regrets over not holding you closer. But then you were off in college across the country, and… I don’t know. I was mad you were slipping away. I know you don’t remember it, but I spent years trying to apologize. I will always come back for you.”
“Then why didn’t you?” Her voice stumbles over the words. It’s pathetic. She’s pathetic. She’s— Karen has the most annoying ability of making her feel like she’s twelve years old again. Like she hasn’t aged a single day since puberty, and she’s desperately clinging to the skirt of her older sister who’s about to abandon her for a better life.
Karen pulls her into a tight hug. “I’m sorry. I'm so sorry.”
For a few seconds, Claire leaves her body. She witnesses this scene from the outside, unable to feel Karen’s arms around her or the burning sensation of an open cut.
She doesn’t want to forgive her so easily. It’s still so fresh, a sickly yellow cut that keeps dissolving the stitching trying to close it. She can’t close it, or else she’s at risk of a second one forming.
What happens when they fight again? What happens when old wounds get picked at, and suddenly the cut is growing in size. Nobody is worth that kind of suffering.
But it’s her sister. It’s Karen. If anyone was worth that, wouldn’t it be her sister? It’s not like she has any family left besides her and those boys.
It’s Karen who taught her how to swim, and Karen who failed at teaching her to cook, and Karen who would forge their mother’s signature on permission slips.
Back inside her body, she holds Karen back. “I’m sorry, too,” she whispers. Karen squeezes tighter.
Exactly a week after she forgot ten years of her life, she wakes up with it like a tidal wave in her head in the middle of the night. Her body moves on autopilot, dragging her from her bed and to her daughter's room.
She knows why they were at that hospital to begin with again. Maisie was kidnapped, and they all narrowly escaped dinosaurs again, and she hasn’t had a single chance to hug her since.
Maisie stirs in her bed, but doesn’t wake up with her entrance. She’s sleeping so peacefully that it feels like a moral crime to wake her. Except, this last week has been impossibly difficult for every member of her small family. It’s the least she can do.
She nudges Maisie’s shoulder a few times until the girl is blearily blinking her eyes open.
“Hi, honey.”
She shifts towards Claire, face scrunched. Her eyes shoot open. “Mama?”
“Oh, honey.” She wraps the girl in a tight hug, swaying with her under the weight of pent up emotion. “I’m sorry for leaving you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
Maisie grips her with reckless abandon, digging her fingers painfully into her back. “It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t have run away. I should’ve—“
“No. Don’t blame yourself. For any of that. Never. It wasn’t your fault at all.”
Maisie exhales shakily, then her body trembles against her. The sobs are silent at first, slowly growing in strength while she clings harder and harder. There might be bruises on her in the morning like, but not a single part of her cares.
“My baby. Oh, I’m so sorry.” Her hand trails up to Maisie’s head. She pulls back just far enough to kiss the side of it. “You’ve been so strong. I’m sorry.”
“I missed you so much.”
“I know.” She kisses her head again. “Oh, I know, baby.” And again. “You are never leaving my side again. You understand?”
Maisie nods, curling impossibly closer.
Claire’s door is open, but her room is empty. He wakes up with the first rays of morning, still tossing from uncomfortable sleep. As he’s moving towards the stairs, he notices that Maisie’s door is also curiously open.
Peeking inside, his heart stalls. She’s there, curled up around their daughter, which can only mean one thing: she’s back.
He cements the image to his mind. Maisie with her head under Claire’s chin. Claire’s arm acting like a pillow for her head, wrapping around her in a protective embrace. Maisie’s own arms wrapping themselves around Claire’s other arm in a vice grip. His girls.
They butt heads as hard as they love, and he knew it was only a matter of time before all that bickering started to melt away. Teenage angst. It kills some of the greatest kids for a moment.
Unable to wake them, he continues down to the kitchen where Karen has already fixed herself a cup of coffee. Her gaze is immediately suspicious when he walks in without a slump to his shoulders.
“What has you in a good mood?” She can guess, but she’s still hesitant to hope.
“I found her wrapped around Maisie this morning.” He’s smiling. He can’t help himself. Any version of her is a gift, but this is the woman he’s gone to hell with.
“She’s back,” Karen says quietly, like anything louder will curse them.
He nods with a face splitting grin.
The memories of having no memory still sit in her head. It’s an odd dichotomy of dissonance. She remembers not remembering. But it’s in those memories that she remembers that she hasn’t set things right with the other most important people in her life.
She carefully extracts herself from Maisie, and begins the hunt for the other two. Chattering voices lead her downstairs where the two linger over coffee.
He spots her first. Feels that old homing beacon in his head telling him she’s near. His grin is blinding. Time pauses for the few seconds it takes for him to cross the room and pick her up.
He twirls her, earning a deep belly laugh spurred on by both the absurdity of it and joy of being back. He sets her down a moment later, somehow grinning wider. “It’s you,” he says, strangely surprised.
“It’s me.” His arms don’t let go of her waist. Instead, he tugs her closer to pull her into a hard kiss. Her hands crawl up his arms, until they’re cupping his rough face. It lasts longer than what’s decent for her sister still being in the room, but none of them particularly care.
She pulls back, and he follows her for a few inches until he realizes where he’s going. They laugh in unison. She presses her forehead against his. Her hands fall from his face, and instead, she curls her arms around his neck. He closes his eyes with a long, deep sigh.
“I missed you,” he says.
“Means you’ll appreciate me more,” she jokes. With that, she turns back to Karen who’s watching them in amusement.
“I’d say get a room, but…”
“Come here,” Claire demands. Owen lets her slip away, only so Karen can pull her close. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“You’re my sister,” says Karen, squeezing her tighter. In the moment it takes to separate, Owen’s arm finds her waist again. She chuckles, letting it happen.
“You’re insufferable,” says Karen, shaking her head with a grin. “It was only a few days.”
“One day would be too much,” he says, only partially joking.
She wakes up alone, and wonders if it was all a dream. It’s too good to be true. You don’t survive Biosyn then live happily ever after. Life isn’t that fair. You don’t escape the manor without someone dying.
Maisie lingers in her room for most of the morning. She’s not hungry. She’s not thirsty. She’s certainly not bored. She doesn’t need to go downstairs.
This has been her reality for days now. She hides here, reading books, sketching scenes from memory, and listening to music, while the world passes her by. It’s better than the alternative by a thousand degrees.
She doesn’t need to face the reality that her mom isn’t back yet.
But her stomach growls viciously, and she can only put it off for so long. Her feet drag with each slow step downstairs. Laughter erupts in the distance. She pauses midstep. It wouldn’t be good to get her hopes up like this.
Still, her heart speeds up for a few beats.
Downstairs, she’s frozen in her tracks. The three of them are in the living room, which isn’t that odd. Except, Claire is beside Owen. She can see the back of her red hair, how she’s leaned on his shoulder and how his arm is around the back of the couch, resting his hand on her shoulder.
“Mom?”
Claire whips around, wearing a wide grin. “You’re awake,” she greets.
Maisie nods, unable to speak. It’s all that’s said for a long, long moment.
Claire tilts her head, patting the cushion out of view from Maisie. “Come here, honey. Don’t be shy.”
Wordlessly, Maisie walks around the couch and settles into place beside her mother. She settles into her side, breathing out her first easy breath since she was taken.