Chapter 2: Ghosts of First Love

But we weren’t always like this. God, we used to be everything to each other.

When my mom first divorced, the judge barely looked at me before sending me to live with Dad, like I was just another box to check off in the paperwork.

My dad remarried, and every cent I spent became a battleground between him and my stepmother. She’d rifle through receipts, interrogating me over every pencil, every hoodie.

Even when I scrimped—wearing jeans until they fell apart, eating ramen for dinner—my dad still hung his head and muttered, "Grace, can you stop causing me trouble?"

So I started boarding at school, working part-time after classes at a greasy spoon, coming home with fryer burns and hair that always smelled like old oil. But there wasn’t much time for work in high school. The few bucks I earned lasted a couple days, and when I was hungry, I just drank water from the fountain, pretending it was some trendy cleanse.

Until one day, my body gave out—I fainted right in the middle of AP Chemistry from chronic malnutrition.

The teacher called my mom, and she went ballistic on my dad—her furious voice echoing through the hospital room, threatening lawsuits and destruction.

After my mom remarried, she happened to have a teenage son in his own rebellious phase. She and her new husband were building their careers—her in finance, him in tech—and were constantly worn down by this little troublemaker who seemed determined to push every limit.

Eventually, they thought of me—the daughter neither parent wanted. The perfect solution to their Mason problem.

They gave me living expenses, enough for real lunches, and I moved into the Mitchell family under the convenient title of "taking care of my little brother."

I was only two years older than Mason, and at first, he wasn’t having any of it. He’d glare at me with sullen teenage eyes and demand to know why he should listen to some random girl.

When he snuck out to dingy 24-hour gaming cafés, Red Bull cans piling up, I’d sit next to him with my calculus homework, pretending not to notice how late it was.

When he tried to sneak out to bars with a fake ID, I’d catch him at the door, grabbing his collar, both of us wrestling like idiots.

Eventually, he lost it—his voice cracking with teenage rage. I lost it right back, tears streaming down my face. "You think I want to control you? You have parents who love you—I don’t! If it weren’t for the living expenses, I wouldn’t even be here!" All my years of hurt and abandonment came pouring out.

The tough-guy freshman, who liked to act cool but had no real edge, panicked at the sight of my tears. His whole act crumbled.

"Don’t cry. I won’t go anymore, okay? From now on, this young man’s got your back." He said it with such earnestness, like he was making a sacred vow.

That’s when I discovered Mason’s weakness. As long as I cried, he’d do anything for me. It was like my secret weapon.

His friends at school mocked him in the hallways. "You’re such a sister complex. Totally whipped."

Mason just grinned and threw his arm around me. "You’re just jealous I have a beautiful sister."

I don’t know who fell first—Mason or me. It crept up, season by season.

Young love hit us hard, urgent and reckless, like a Chicago summer storm—fast, overwhelming, impossible to ignore.

Maybe it was because I, always the family burden, finally tasted sweetness. Or maybe it was the way he’d always wait for me under the streetlight with a 7-Eleven hot chocolate after my late shift at the diner, calling me "sis" in that soft voice.

Our shadows overlapped under the blazing sun, walking home from school, love burning in our eyes. Maybe it started with that thunderstorm and a shared umbrella, or the day at the beach when he taught me to skip stones.

The tension between us was electric, making every accidental touch feel like a live wire. We’d both blush, hearts pounding.

I was completely bewitched by the boy who’d bring me wildflowers, save his allowance for my birthday, and punch Tommy Harrison for calling me trailer trash.

Once, we were walking home with our fingers hooked together when my mom caught us. She stared at me, eyes hard as stone. She’d come home early from a meeting, and there we were—caught like criminals.

I yanked my hand away, chilled to the bone.

They killed it before it even had a shot—like yanking a flower up by the roots before it could bloom.

My mom cried and called me a vixen, accusing me of seducing my own little brother. She screamed about what the neighbors would think, her voice echoing off the kitchen tile, then beat me like a madwoman, scratching and slapping until I was covered in bloody marks. I never fought back. Some part of me thought I deserved it.

Mason was put under house arrest, phone confiscated, car keys gone, a security system installed to track his every move.

But loving someone to death takes guts, and at seventeen, I was a coward.

After I finished my SATs—scoring high enough for a full ride to Northwestern—I left the Mitchells without a word, letting Mason go on his hunger strike alone. In the silent war with our parents, I ran. I was the deserter, the one who broke first.

Later, I scraped together a working holiday visa and fled to Australia, picking fruit in the sun and hustling in Melbourne cafés to pay my tuition. Except for replying to her birthday wishes with a flat "Thanks, Mom," I never looked back.

"Why did you come back?"

After the welcome dinner, Mason drove me home in his Tesla. The dashboard glowed blue, rain streaking the windows, neither of us willing to break the silence.

I sat in the back, eyes closed, pretending to be more tired than I was. "How could I miss your wedding? After all, you’re my nominal little brother."

I smiled, but the word "nominal" tasted bitter.

Mason’s grip tightened on the wheel, then loosened. After a moment, he muttered, "How have you been all these years?"

I kept it breezy. "Pretty good. I just opened a coffee shop in Oregon. Portland’s great—all those hipsters love their lattes."

The car braked suddenly at a red light, tires squealing a little.

"Are you leaving again?" He turned, face young in the red glow.

I didn’t meet his eyes. "Of course. There’s no home for me here."

"But… your fiancée seems more interested in your money than in you as a person."

I poked at the wound. "Really? Then would you mind changing your beloved?"

Mason’s breath caught. The air in the car felt thick.

"Don’t joke around… sister."

He rolled his eyes, but his voice shook. "Back then… you were the one who ran first. We promised neither of us would run." His voice cracked at the end.

Mason stared ahead, eyes glistening. He blinked hard, like he was back in the rain outside my window, begging me not to leave.

"But you still left…"

I dropped the smile. "Mase, how long’s it been? Ten years, right?"

He didn’t even pause. "3,841 days." His voice was low, almost a whisper, but it hit me like a punch.

I stared, stunned, and looked away. He’d been counting. All this time, he’d been counting. "3,841 days, and you’re getting married. Good thing you moved on."

He pulled his lips into a bitter smile, unreadable in the darkness. "Yeah. Moved on."

The car fell silent. Even the engine’s hum sounded harsh. The rest of the drive felt endless, both of us drowning in what we couldn’t say.

Since I’d come home, Mason hadn’t returned for over a week, avoiding any chance of seeing me. He was holed up in his downtown apartment, the one his parents bought him for his twenty-fifth birthday.

Tsk. I shook my head and poured another cup of coffee. I couldn’t let this brat mess with my head. I had a plan to execute.

"Finally willing to come home?"

My mom greeted Mason as he got off work, grabbing his briefcase and pulling him into the living room like he was still her little boy.

"Perfect timing. I cooked a whole table of dishes. Come taste your sister’s cooking."

Mason knew our parents didn’t like Jessica, so he never brought her home. Their relationship existed in restaurants and his apartment, carefully separated from family dinners.

Looking at the table full of his favorites—I’d remembered every single one—Mason picked up a piece of honey-glazed pork and popped it in his mouth.

He suddenly seemed lost in thought, eyes going distant, probably remembering all those nights it was just the two of us, eating dinner I’d cooked while our parents worked late.

I came out of the kitchen at just the right moment, apron tied over my dress, spatula in hand, playing the part of domestic goddess.

"What’s wrong? Little brat, haven’t had my cooking in so long—you must miss it."

He just nodded, eating silently, but I saw him close his eyes for a moment, savoring it.

When I used to live at the Mitchells, our parents were never home. I cooked for Mason so often, my skills actually got decent. I knew he missed it—Jessica probably lived on takeout and Instagram restaurants that looked better than they tasted.

My mom beamed, clearly pleased. "Eat slowly."

Thunder rolled outside, a typical Midwest storm, but inside was warm, almost like we’d rewound to that year before everything broke.

Mason’s phone buzzed, and he answered with a frown, his whole vibe shifting.

His dad asked, "What’s wrong? Work trouble?"

Mason shook his head, already standing. "Dad, Mom… and sis, I need to head out. Jessica’s stuck at the office without an umbrella. I need to pick her up."

My mom slammed her chopsticks down, the sound slicing through the cozy silence.

"That gold-digger again."

I saw it coming. Mason didn’t say a word, jaw set. I just grabbed an umbrella and handed it to him.

"Go ahead. I’m home." I smiled, playing the perfect understanding sister.

A white moonlight should be gentle and understanding, even when it kills her inside.

Even though my chest felt tight and sour, like I’d swallowed glass.

At 1 AM, Mason still hadn’t returned. I sat in the living room watching Netflix, cycling through rom-coms that all felt like lies.

I was past the age of believing in fairy tales, but I still found myself rooting for so-called pure love stories, like some part of me hadn’t given up hope.

The door creaked open, barely audible over the TV.

I saw a familiar silhouette—soaked through, water pooling around expensive shoes. I didn’t look up. "You’re back? Don’t you have a car? How’d you get so wet?"

Mason was startled, clearly not expecting me to still be up. He stood there, dripping, lost.

He answered quietly, for once. "Jessica said… walking home in the rain is more… romantic."

I burst out laughing. Pure love didn’t mean you had to be an idiot. Was he still eighteen?

"Hurry up and shower, then get some rest."

I moved to take the umbrella from him, but suddenly he collapsed against me, his full weight nearly knocking me over.

His body was burning up. I reached out to check—Mason was feverish, as always when upset.

I dragged him to the sofa, his wet suit leaving marks on the leather, and wrapped him in a towel from the laundry room.

His clothes clung to him, see-through in places. I tried not to think about how familiar this all felt. I patted his face, firm but gentle. "Wake up. Change into dry clothes."

Mason was delirious but obedient, muscle memory from all the times I’d nursed him through fevers.

Once he’d changed, I brought him medicine, same as always.

"Drink this. I’ll leave once you do. Be good and go back to your room."

But he grabbed my wrist, grip surprisingly strong, eyes glassy. "Don’t leave."

I tried to pull free. "I’m just going to my room. I won’t leave."

But he murmured, half-conscious, "Grace, don’t leave. Don’t abandon me. How could you abandon me?"

My nose stung, tears prickling. I hugged him, patting his back like I did when he was a kid with nightmares.

"I won’t abandon Mase again."

How could I ever abandon him? But back then, if he’d come with me… I had nothing. No money, no home, no future to offer.

That night, Mason—usually so cold—was both weepy and needy, obedient and adorable, just like the boy I’d fallen for.

When his fever finally broke, dawn painted the living room in soft pink light.

I’d fallen asleep on the sofa, neck stiff. When I woke, I was tucked under my grandmother’s quilt in bed. Mason had slipped out, probably embarrassed, leaving only the indent in my pillow.

I stretched, catlike, a wicked plan already forming. If Mason thought he could just walk away, he was dead wrong.