[Maddie’s POV]

Consciousness returns like a particularly aggressive drill sergeant—loud, unwelcome, accompanied by the impression someone replaced my brain with cotton balls soaked in regret.

My mouth tastes like something died in it. When I lift my head, the room tilts sideways. Emily’s bed is empty and neatly made, which somehow makes everything worse.

On my nightstand sits a water bottle and two Advil, arranged with the kind of precision that makes my chest hurt in ways unrelated to the headache currently using my skull as a drum solo venue.

The memories filter in—terrible cocktails with names like Beach Bomb, Ava laughing, stumbling back. Then the sex. The drunk, giggly sex where I said things. Love confessions and apologies. Other mortifying declarations.

My phone shows it’s past noon. There’s a text: “Hope you’re feeling okay. Left you supplies. See you later?” I type back “Thanks for the meds. Sorry for being a disaster” and hit send.

Three dots appear, disappear. Finally: “You weren’t a disaster. I still love you.” My stomach churns. Of course, she does. Of course, she’s patient and understanding more than I deserve.

The hangover fades but the embarrassment stays sharp. I don’t regret the sex. I regret saying “I love you” and apologizing drunk off a Beach Bomb instead of during an actual meaningful moment.

I’m sprawled on my bed when my phone rings. My father’s name flashes across the screen. My breath hitches—really? He cut me off, told me to choose. And now he’s calling?

My hands shake when I answer. “Hello?” My voice comes out small, and I hate myself for it.

“Madison, hey, sweetheart. How are you?” His voice is warm, measured, like discussing quarterly projections.

The endearment makes my throat tight. “I’m fine. How are you?” The pleasantries feel absurd but necessary.

“We’re… managing.” There’s a pause and a slight hesitance in his voice, before he continues. “Your mother and I have been thinking about you. And I know this is out of the blue, but I’ve been thinking about how I handled things when you told us about Emily.”

My heart pounds so hard I can feel it. “You have?” The question comes out careful, guarded. I can’t let him get to me, can’t let that flimsy apology make up for the last two months.

“Yeah, I was wrong, Maddie. And I’m sorry for the heartbreak and hardships that I’ve caused by my mistake,” he confesses solemnly, his voice just as heavy as he claims his consciousness is. I take a deep breath, giving myself a moment to collect myself.

“Yeah,” I agree with more heat than I should, because he’s my father, but he also disowned me, so I guess it’s deserved. “Yeah, you were wrong. And you did cause me a lot of shit.”

In any other circumstances, he’d remind me to watch my language, because he doesn’t like when I swear, even if it’s innocuous. Right now, he’s quiet for a moment and I can imagine the sorrow on his weathered face. Still doesn’t feel fully sincere.

Plus, I’m not sure I’m ready to see him in person. “Calling me after nowhere won’t make me forget that easily, Dad,” I add quickly, because this is not a resignation.

We used to never have fights. I was a good kid, I tried my best to be exemplary, so my parents wouldn’t have to worry. I didn’t even talk to them about the bullying at school. I was good. I was perfect.

It’s enough that he understands—at least, for now. At least until I can wrap my head around this converation. But I’ve also missed his voice, as angry as I was. So I can’t say no. “Yeah. Okay. That’s fine, I guess.”

“Thank you,” his voice is warm, soft, just as I remember it from my childhood. Even from further than two months back. “How are you doing? How have you been?”

“I’m fine,” I cut him off, not ready to launch into details and explanation of how much he hurt me. “It’s been fine, I’m doing fine. Thank you. How’s mom?”

I don’t know if Mom told him that she reached out, but I don’t want to be the one revealing that secret. They need to figure it out between themselves, and I will not be a part of that conversation.

“Hanna is doing okay,” he replies, eager to answer. “She misses you, but she’s okay. She’ll be glad to hear that you’re doing okay, too. That’s all she wanted. Also, it might be too early, but maybe you could—”

“No,” I cut him off without letting him finish. I don’t know what he’s proposing, but it can’t be anything good, judging by the preamble. I’m not ready for anything more than surface level conversation. “No. And I’ve gotta go.”

There’s a pause on his end—dissapointed one, no doubt. But he recovers quickly. “Of course, I understand. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Then, uh…” he hesitates, finding the right words. “Take care of yourself. I hope you have a good day.”

“You too,” I offer back, because I’m polite. I drop the call before he says anything else, and stare at the screen blindly. What was he going to propose? Why did he call? Is he… Is he really sorry?