76

"Mom, why are you sneaking around the bookstore like a ninja?"

Liana's whisper was stage-perfect, her sneakers squeaking on the polished floor.

Amara's shoulders slumped as she edged out from behind a shelf of self-help.

"Research."

"For what? Your next 'how to survive Leo's cooking' blog post?"

Amara's laughter was shaky. "Something like that."

Liana's eyes narrowed. "That's the third time this week you've 'had to browse.' And you're always… tense."

A chime announced another customer. Amara seized the distraction. "Look, someone’s buying The Geometry of Us. How sweet."

The customer was a woman in her late twenties, her fingers tracing the spine of Amara’s anonymously published memoir. "I’ve read this three times. It’s… it’s like the author’s in my head. How did they get love so right?"

Liana’s gaze snapped to Amara.

She swallowed. "Sometimes… sometimes the greatest stories aren't signed with real names."

The woman smiled, oblivious. "I wish I could thank them. Especially after…" Her voice broke. "After my divorce. This book… it reminded me we're not the sum of our failures."

Amara's throat tightened.

As the woman departed, Liana whispered, "You wrote that?!"

"Shh!" Amara glanced around, fear rising up. "It's anonymous for a reason!"

"Since when?!" Liana's whisper was toxic. "Since you started 'needing space' again? Since Dad's journal thing?"

Amara's hands shook. "It's not like that. I just… needed to process us. All of us. Without… without labels."

Liana's voice softened. "Mom, it's us. Labels or not, we're still us."

That evening, Leo found Amara on the porch, the memoir held to her chest.

"Raving reviews," he said, settling into the rocking chair beside her. "Not to mention a sobbing Starbucks barista who said it 'saved her marriage.'"

Amara's laughter was acid. "How long before Liana outs me?"

He set his coffee aside, his expression serious. "Why'd you do it? Publish it, I mean."

She traced the name of the pseudonymous author on the spine. "I had to… to separate the story from the pain. To be able to look at us as something other than 'the family that almost broke up'."

Leo's fingers wrapped around hers. "And? Did it work?"

She regarded him, the unwritten years between them heavy. "It made me miss us more."

The following morning, Liana burst into the kitchen, the memoir clutched in one hand and phone in the other.

"Mom! Someone posted the author's name online! It says… it says the book's true, based on a real family. A dysfunctional one. Ours."

Amara's blood froze.

Leo stood in the doorway, looking pale. "I read the thread. They have the publisher's details. Your name's all over."

Liana's voice shook. "Why didn't you tell us?!"

Amara's laugh was merciless. "To protect us. To protect me."

Leo's voice dipped. "Too late for that."

-----

"Hey, Dad, do you ever get nervous when people are waiting for you to get it right?" Liana's voice cut through the din backstage, her hands crumpling at the cuff of her sweater.

Leo adjusted his tie, the garish polyester annoying him. "Define 'perfect.' If it's arriving with a half-cooked speech and a prayer, then yeah. Always."

She smiled, her shoulders easing. "Ms. Torres told me that I have to talk about 'healing through art.' But what if I mess up? What if I sound like a pretentious robot?"

He pulled out a granola bar from his pocket—the one Amara had shoved into his bag "for emergencies"—and tossed it to her. "Pretentious robots don't cry in the wings. Now go break legs. Or whatever artists do."

Liana caught the bar in mid-air. "Break legs? That's a theater thing."

"Semantics." He kissed her forehead. "Just… be you. Even the messy bits."

On stage, the lights blinded her.

"Today's topic is 'healing through art,'" she began, her words even as war drums boomed around within her. "But I'm not here to tell you that art heals all. It doesn't. My dad used to say art's like a bandage—you put it on the wound and hope it sticks until the scab comes."

A laugh swept through the audience.

She stepped forward, the microphone quivering in her hand. "My mom's a nurse. She says that wounds need air in order to heal. So maybe art isn't the bandage. Maybe it's the scalpel. The one that cuts through the scab so that you can see what's underneath."

A gasp. Someone snuffled.

Liana's breath caught. For a moment, she was seven again, and her mom was sobbing over a wedding ring in a pawn shop window.

"Last year," she said, her voice shaking, "I did a science project on forgiveness. Used time-lapse footage of dying succulents. Said that love makes things grow. I was wrong. Love doesn't make things grow. Grief does. Love just… remembers to water the damn plants."

The silence was tight and electric.

Then a girl in the front row raised her hand. "What if you're too scared to water the plants?"

Liana's laughter had no filter. "Then you cry all over them. Sometimes that works."

Later, while Leo helped her stow the props—a terrarium, a violin, a Polaroid of Amara mid-laugh—Liana's phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: "The redhead with the red sweater? She's your mom's patient. The one who lost a brother during the fire."

Liana's hands trembled. "Who…?"

"Wrong number," Leo said, noticing her pale face. "Let's get you home before Mom starts plotting a 'surprise family dinner.'"

While they headed to the car, Liana's phone buzzed again.

Unknown Number: "P.S. Let your parents know the timeline's almost complete. The box in Portland? It's in waiting."“What timeline?” Liana’s voice shook, her laughter tinged with fear. “And why does everyone keep mentioning Portland?!”

Amara’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide.

Leo’s voice was steady, but his grip on the steering wheel betrayed him. “We’ll talk about it… later.”

The car radio crackled to life, static giving way to a news report:

“…unexplained phenomena reported near Portland’s Trust & Savings Bank. Witnesses describe shadows moving independently of their owners…”

Liana’s breath hitched.

Amara’s wedding band pulsed faintly in the dashboard light.

And somewhere, a key turned in a lock that shouldn’t exist.