2 Family - 1

POV - Melaena

It’s moments like these that make me miss my mom the most. Not in a dramatic, fall-to-my-knees way — just this quiet ache. The kind that makes you want another woman in the room. Someone older. Someone who’s survived things and can hand out advice like it’s candy. Someone who isn’t Kiara.

But Mom’s been gone for what feels like forever.

Eight years, seven months, and twenty-one days, my brain supplies automatically — unhelpful, precise, like it’s proud of itself.

Time passes. Life moves on. People say it gets easier.

They’re wrong.

Because no matter how many years stack up, the night we found her murdered in our house is welded into me. Permanently. Untouchable.

What I don’t tell anyone — not even Kiara — is that I remember the smell first. Her spaghetti bolognese. The real one. The kind that simmers forever and somehow tastes like safety. I memorized her recipe … written in her cookbook with her own handwriting.

Whenever I’m falling apart, I make it for myself. One bowl is usually enough to stitch me back together. It’s my ultimate comfort food.

It reminds me of the moment just before everything broke.

We were grounded that night, sneaking back inside, trying not to get caught. I remember opening the door and being instantly, stupidly happy. Starving. The smell hit me like a hug — tomatoes, garlic, warmth. Home. I was already planning my excuse. Already tasting dinner.

It was a great moment … and I wish I could live in that second forever.

Because the next moment — everything stopped.

Blood on the floor. Glass everywhere. The house was torn open like it had been attacked from the inside. I didn’t need anyone to explain it. We all knew.

Logan grabbed me, and we clung to each other like two kids trying to become one braver person. We didn’t cry. We didn’t scream. We just stood there, waiting for something — answers, good news — I still don’t know what.

I’m grateful, at least, that I never followed my older brothers into the kitchen. My memories of her stayed intact. Untouched by horror. She’s still alive in my head — laughing, cooking, nagging, loving. Not broken on a floor.

That night, I lost both my parents.

Mom died.

And Dad … vanished.

I don’t know what happened to him. Maybe he died too. Maybe he didn’t. I never saw him again.

But sometimes my mind fills in the blanks for me. I imagine him sitting in the back row at school plays. Cheering from the bleachers when I ran. Standing awkwardly at prizegivings, proud and silent and present.

It’s probably not real.

But it helps.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

I drag my mind back to the present, like yanking a stubborn dog off a scent trail.

Why do I keep slipping into the past tonight?

But I already know the answer — Damion fucking Grimm.

Even when we’re talking about Ren, my thoughts keep detouring — uninvited, unhelpful.

“If I haven’t fallen in love with him by the end of October,” I finally tell Kiara, “I’ll probably dump him and move on.”

She studies me for a beat. “Look … you know I don’t buy into the fairy-tale nonsense. Or soulmates. Or destiny with good lighting.” She pauses. “But I know that’s what you want. And I think you’re just looking in the wrong place. Or more accurately … at the wrong guy.”

Maybe.

But the right guy is an asshole. Possibly a donkey. Definitely a menace.

She clicks her tongue at my what-the-fudge face. What does she know anyway? Ren is my first boyfriend. She knows that. He could still be the one. Couldn’t he? Maybe my nuclei are lagging. Maybe the big BAM moment is just late.

Except I know that’s not how it works.

“So,” she says, too casually, “are you going to sleep with him?” Her tone is edgy, like she already knows the answer and is bracing herself.

“Who? Ren? No.”

She rolls her eyes so hard I worry about whiplash. But she can judge all she wants. She knows I want my first time to matter. Yes, it’s cheesy. I’m fine with that. It’s just … me.

Kiara had prom-night sex like a perfectly normal teenager. Me? I’m waiting for sparks. Electricity. That knock-you-flat feeling that rewires your DNA.

Call it love. Call it madness. Call it unrealistic expectations fueled by too many romance novels.

Ren doesn’t create that. No sparks.

And deep down, I know he never will.

“That was very … decisive,” she says.

It is. I didn’t even have to think.

If she’d meant Damion, though … yeah. Then I will have to think hard. That would take hours. Days. Possibly a whiteboard and a therapist.

But that’s just stupid pumped-up confused hormones. Nothing else.

“And this has nothing to do with,” she says sweetly, “… oh, I don’t know … some green-eyed bad-ass?”

Why. Why does she keep dragging him back into the room? I just stopped thinking about him.

“Ugh. Seriously?” I groan. “He’s like a fungus. Impossible to kill. And he’s bad, mad, unhinged, and I’m fairly certain he doesn’t have a heart. Or at least not a functioning one.”

She squints. “You’re not still on that vampire theory, are you?”

I pout. I am absolutely still not convinced he isn’t one. I’ve watched The Vampire Diaries enough times to know the signs.

Mysterious. Sexy. Alluring eyes that should come with a warning label.

Even the jewelry — no giant-ass ring, but a stud in his left ear with some weird blue stone that changes color.

Tell me that’s not a daylight protection artifact. I dare you.

“No,” I snort, lying terribly.

Kiara hates fantasy. Thinks TVD is garbage. She prefers Grey’s Anatomy, Big Bang Theory, and Suits. Basically, stories where nobody drinks blood, glitter in the sun, or broods attractively.

“I just mean,” I recover, “he’s not exactly … sentimental. Or affectionate.”

“None of them are.” Fair.

Kiara is basically my sister. Technically, my adopted cousin, but titles don’t matter. She came to live with Uncle John after her alcoholic mother jumped off a five-story building when we were five. Her father’s still alive, but he’s been in prison forever for murder.

At least she can visit him sometimes.

More than I can say for my dad.

I don’t even know if he’s still walking around in the world … or if he’s already become another ghost my heart learned to live without.