Chapter 6

I sat on the edge of my bathtub, the bleeding on my head finally slowing. I felt a strange sense of calm settle over me. The worst had happened. They had chosen objects and a stranger over me, not once, but repeatedly. There was nothing left to be hurt by.

I heard footsteps on the stairs. Both of them. They appeared in the bathroom doorway, their faces a mixture of guilt and confusion. Ismael was holding a wet cloth.

"Ange... your head," Ismael said, his voice hesitant. He finally looked like he saw me, really saw me.

"Danial, what did you do?" he whispered, turning to his friend.

Danial wouldn't meet my eyes. He stared at the floor. "I... I didn't mean to. I was angry about the vase."

I laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "The vase. Of course. It's always about the things, isn't it? The trophy, the vase. What about me? Did either of you even notice I couldn't breathe?"

I looked at their faces, searching for any flicker of recognition, any memory of the girl they grew up with, the girl who had the same severe allergic reactions since she was a child. The girl they had rushed to the hospital more times than they could count.

"Don't you remember?" I asked, my voice breaking. "The bee sting at the lake house? The shellfish at that restaurant in Paris? You were there. You held my hand. You told me it would be okay."

Danial finally looked up, his face ashen. The memory hit him. "The gardenias," he whispered, his eyes wide with horror. "I forgot. The doctors said it could be anything... but they've been in bloom all week."

The flowers he had planted for me, a gesture of love, had become the source of my suffering. And in their obsession with Judi, they hadn't noticed.

"I'm sorry, Ange," Ismael said, taking a step forward. "God, I'm so sorry. We've been... distracted."

"We messed up," Danial added, his voice thick with regret. "There's no excuse."

I just looked at them, my silence a wall they couldn't breach. An apology couldn't stitch up the wounds they had carved into our friendship.

Danial turned and ran down the stairs. A few minutes later, I heard the sound of furious ripping and tearing from the garden. He was pulling out every single gardenia bush, his rage and guilt fueling the destruction.

They didn't come back to the house for the next two days. The space they left behind was quiet, peaceful. I used the time to pack. I didn't need boxes. I was leaving almost everything behind. I packed a single suitcase with essentials and the few things that mattered: a locket from my grandmother, my favorite book, a framed photo of my aunt.

I looked around the house, this structure of glass and steel that I had designed, that we had filled with our shared lives. It was just a building now. The soul had left.

On the third day, a car pulled up. A well-dressed man got out, holding a clipboard. He was from the real estate agency. Danial and Ismael arrived just as he was ringing the doorbell.

They saw the man, then the 'For Sale' sign he was about to plant in the front lawn.

"What is this?" Danial demanded, looking from the agent to me as I opened the door.

The agent, flustered, looked at his paperwork. "I'm here for the showing? For Ms. Lester's property?"

"You're selling the house?" Ismael's voice was incredulous. "You can't sell the house!"

"Why not?" I asked calmly.

"Because... because of us! This is our home too!" he sputtered.

Danial stepped forward, his expression pleading. "Ange, if this is about what happened, we can fix it. Don't do this. Don't throw everything away."

"This has nothing to do with what happened," I lied smoothly. "I'm moving to New York. I won't need a house in LA."

"But our history is here," Ismael said, his voice soft and desperate.

I smiled, a cold, brittle thing. "If you want to keep the house so badly, you can buy it. In fact, I'll give you a friends and family discount." I paused, letting the words sink in. "And you'll have plenty of room for Judi to move in. It would be very convenient for you."

Their faces fell. The mention of Judi was a splash of cold water. They looked at each other, a silent communication passing between them. The prospect of having Judi live here, in this house filled with my ghosts, suddenly seemed appealing to them.

Ismael, ever the impulsive one, still looked uncertain. He searched my face, looking for a crack in my resolve. "Are you really doing this, Ange? Are you really leaving us?"

"I'm not leaving you," I said, the lie smooth and practiced. "I'm just moving. Think of it as a gesture of our friendship. I'm giving you the house."