the next morning

You don't sleep.

You lie on your floor until the room brightens with dawn, staring at the ceiling, replaying the night over and over. Every moan. Every gasp. The way she looked at you after—satisfied, victorious, unashamed.

Around seven, you hear movement in the hallway. The creak of Mom's bedroom door. Dad's low rumble, Allison's softer reply. More footsteps—the bathroom, the shower running. You track their movements like a prisoner tracking guards, your entire body rigid with tension.

You wait until you hear Dad's footsteps descend the stairs before you move.

The shower is still running when you slip out of your room and head down. Maybe if you're quick, you can grab something and disappear before—

Too late.

Dad's in the kitchen, fully dressed, looking refreshed and disgustingly happy. He's humming. Actually humming some tune you vaguely recognize as he pours coffee into Mom's favorite mug—the blue one with the chip on the handle.

"Morning, champ!" He grins when he sees you. "You're up early."

"Couldn't sleep."

"Yeah? I slept great." His grin widens, and there's something almost conspiratorial in it that makes your stomach turn. "Best night I've had in years, honestly. Your mom and I—well, we really reconnected."

You reach for a glass, fill it with water just to have something to do with your hands. "That's great, Dad."

"It is." He leans against the counter, cradling his coffee. "I know the divorce was hard on you kids. On all of us. But I think—I really think we might be able to make this work. Second chance, you know?"

The water tastes like ash.

"She's special," Dad continues, oblivious. "I forgot how special. How good we are together. I was an idiot to throw that away."

You set the glass down before you drop it. "Dad—"

"I'm flying out this afternoon, but I'll be back next weekend." His eyes are bright, animated in a way you haven't seen since before the divorce. "Actually, I was thinking—your mom and I might take a trip. Just the two of us. Napa, maybe, or that bed and breakfast in Vermont she always talked about. Reconnect properly. What do you think?"

"I think—" Your throat closes. "I think you should ask her."

"Oh, I will. I'm hoping she'll say yes." He checks his watch. "Speaking of which, I should head out soon. Early flight. But Tim—seriously. Thank you."

"For what?"

"For being okay with this. With me and your mom trying again." He sets his mug down, walks over to clap you on the shoulder. "I know it's probably weird, having me around again. But I'm going to do it right this time. I promise."

The weight of his hand on your shoulder feels like a boulder.

Then the shower cuts off upstairs. Dad's expression shifts—something warm and anticipatory—and he glances toward the ceiling like he can see through the floors.

"I should say goodbye," he murmurs, almost to himself. Then louder, to you: "You're a good kid, Tim. Your mom's lucky to have you."

He heads for the stairs, and you're left standing in the kitchen with your glass of water and the terrible certainty that you're going to be sick.

You hear him knock on the bathroom door. Allison's muffled response. The door opening, closing. Voices too low to make out words, then Dad's laugh—intimate and pleased.

You pour the water down the sink and flee back upstairs before they come down together.

________________________________________

By the time you work up the courage to face the kitchen again, it's past nine. David and Tabitha are already at the table, bowls of cereal in front of them, and Allison is at the stove.

Cooking.

She's wearing Mom's bathrobe—pale blue, tied at the waist—and her hair is still damp from the shower, pinned up in a casual twist. She's barefoot, and there's something unbearably domestic about the whole scene. The way she moves around the kitchen, the spatula in her hand, the scent of bacon and eggs filling the air.

She looks like she belongs here.

Like she's done this a thousand times before.

"Good morning!" Her voice is bright, cheerful. She glances over her shoulder at you, and her smile is warm. Genuine. "I was wondering when you'd come down. You want eggs? I made plenty."

You stand frozen in the doorway.

David looks between you and Allison, then very deliberately stuffs a spoonful of cereal in his mouth. Tabitha's expression is harder to read—something between pity and disappointment.

"I'm not hungry."

"You should eat something." Allison plates eggs and bacon, sets it on the counter. "Come on. Sit."

It's not a request.

You move on autopilot, sliding into a chair. Allison brings the plate over, sets it in front of you with a glass of orange juice. Her fingers brush your shoulder as she passes—brief, casual—and you flinch.

She notices. Her smile falters for just a second before she turns back to the stove.

"Don left about an hour ago," she says conversationally, scraping eggs onto another plate. "He had an early flight. But he'll be back next weekend."

Silence. David chews loudly. Tabitha stares at her cereal.

"Actually," Allison continues, carrying her own plate to the table, "he asked me to go away with him. Just for the weekend. Napa Valley. There's a vineyard he wants to visit, and a nice hotel. Romantic getaway."

She sits down across from you, cuts into her eggs with delicate precision.

"I said yes."

The fork is heavy in your hand. You set it down.

"That's nice," you manage.

"I think so." She takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. "It'll be good for us. For Don and me. A chance to really reconnect without distractions. We spent so many years together, you know? And then the divorce, and everything that happened... I think we both need this."

Her eyes flick up to meet yours. Steady. Deliberate.

"Unless you have a problem with it?"

The challenge hangs in the air. David stops eating. Tabitha's knuckles are white around her spoon.

"Why would I have a problem?"

"I don't know." Allison tilts her head, studying you. "You've been acting strange lately. Distant. I thought maybe you were upset about your father and me getting back together."

"I'm fine."

"Are you?" She leans forward slightly, and the robe gaps at the collar, revealing the curve of her throat, the shadow of cleavage. There's a faint bruise on her collarbone—a hickey, unmistakably Dad's mark—and she doesn't bother to hide it. "Because you've barely said two words to me since the accident. And I've been trying, Tim. Really trying. But I need to know you're okay with this. With me moving forward."

"Moving forward," you repeat flatly.

"With Don." Her smile is gentle, patient. "We're going to take it slow, of course. But I think there's a real chance we could make it work this time. He's changed. Grown up. And I—well, I'm different too. I've been given a second chance, and I don't want to waste it."

"A second chance," David mutters under his breath.

Allison's gaze slides to him, sharpens. "Do you have something to say, David?"

"Nope." He shoves back from the table, grabs his bowl. "I'm done. Gonna go... anywhere else."

He disappears upstairs. Tabitha follows without a word, leaving her cereal half-finished.

You and Allison sit alone at the table.

The silence stretches. Allison finishes her eggs, dabs her mouth with a napkin. She stands, collects the dishes, moves to the sink with that same easy domesticity that makes your skin crawl.

"You're angry," she says without turning around.

"I'm not."

"Liar." Water runs. She rinses plates, loads them into the dishwasher. "You've been angry since you woke up. Since before that, probably. Since you watched last night."

Your blood turns to ice.

She glances over her shoulder, and her expression is unreadable. "Did you think I didn't know? I saw you standing there, Tim. I saw your face."

"Allison—"

"It's Jennifer now. At least when Don's around. You should get used to calling me that." She dries her hands on a towel, turns to face you fully. "He's going to be around a lot more. And I need you to be okay with it. For the family."

"For the family."

"Yes." She crosses back to the table, braces her hands on the back of a chair. "We're trying to rebuild something here. Don and I. And your siblings are being supportive. Tabitha especially—she's really embraced having me back. But you..." She shakes her head. "You're making this harder than it needs to be."

"Making it harder?" You stand, the chair scraping loudly. "You fucked my father."

"I made love with my ex-husband," she corrects calmly. "Who I was married to for eighteen years. Who I'm considering remarrying."

"You're not—" Your hands clench into fists. "You're not Jennifer. You're Allison. You're my—"

"Your what?" She steps around the chair, moves closer. "Your girlfriend? Are you sure about that, Tim? Because you can't even kiss me. You can't touch me. You run away every time I get close. So tell me—what exactly are we?"

You have no answer.

"That's what I thought." Her voice softens, and somehow that's worse. "I'm not trying to hurt you. But I'm also not going to spend the rest of my life waiting for you to figure out how to see past this body. Don doesn't have that problem. He sees me. He wants me. And last night—" Her cheeks flush, and you hate that you can tell it's genuine. "Last night was incredible. Better than anything I've ever felt. And I'm not going to apologize for that."

"You did it to hurt me."

"I did it to feel wanted." She's standing right in front of you now, close enough that you can smell her shampoo—Mom's shampoo—and see the faint shadows under her eyes. "I did it because I'm eighteen years old, and I died, and I came back wrong, and the person who's supposed to love me can't even look at me. So yes. I slept with Don. And I'm going to do it again. And if you have a problem with that, Tim, then maybe you need to ask yourself why."

Her hand comes up to your chest, palm flat over your heart.

"I'm still here," she whispers. "Allison is still here. Inside this body. But if you can't find me, then I have to move on. I have to find someone who can."

You stand paralyzed, her hand burning through your shirt, her face—Mom's face—inches from yours. And the worst part is that you can see her. Allison, looking out through Jennifer's eyes. The girl you loved, trapped in the wrong shell, begging you to bridge the gap.

But you can't.

Your body won't let you.

Her hand drops. She steps back.

"Don's picking me up Friday afternoon," she says quietly. "We'll be gone until Sunday evening. You'll have the house to yourself. Maybe that'll give you time to think about what you want."

She turns, walks away, and you let her.

Because you're a coward.

Because you don't know how to fight for something that looks so wrong even when you know it's right.

You sink back into your chair and stare at your untouched breakfast until it goes cold.

________________________________________

The week crawls by.

Allison is polite, distant. She goes through the motions of daily life—cooking, cleaning, asking about everyone's day—but she doesn't push. Doesn't try to corner you or **** another confrontation. She's playing the role of Jennifer so thoroughly that sometimes you almost forget.

Almost.

Dad calls every night. You hear her on the phone, laughing, voice warm and intimate. "I can't wait either... Yes, Friday... I'm already packed... No, you don't need to bring anything, I've got it covered..."

David avoids you. Tabitha is coldly civil. The house feels like it's holding its breath.

Thursday night, you pass Allison's room—Mom's room—and see her packing. A small suitcase open on the bed, clothes folded neatly inside. She's holding up a black dress, considering it, and when she catches you watching, she doesn't look away.

"What do you think?" She holds the dress against herself. "Too much? Don's taking me somewhere nice Saturday night."

You don't answer. Just turn and walk away.

Friday morning, she's up early. Hair and makeup done, wearing jeans and a soft sweater that looks effortlessly perfect. She's dragging her suitcase down the stairs when you come out of your room.

"Help me with this?" She flashes a smile. "It's heavier than I thought."

You take the suitcase. Carry it down to the entryway without a word.

"Thank you." She checks her watch. "Don will be here in twenty minutes."

"Have a good trip."

"Tim." She catches your arm, makes you look at her. "I meant what I said. I'm still here. But I can't keep waiting."

"I know."

"Do you?" Her grip tightens. "Because I'm about to spend three days in bed with your father. And when I come back, things are going to be different. He's talking about moving back in. About making this permanent. So if you want to stop this—if you want me back—this is your last chance."

Your throat is dry. "What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to fight." Her eyes search yours, **** now, the facade cracking. "I want you to tell me not to go. I want you to kiss me, touch me, prove that you can see past this face. But you won't. You never do."

"Allison—"

"It's Jennifer now," she says softly. "I have to be Jennifer. For Don, for the lawyers, for everyone. And maybe—maybe it's easier that way. Maybe I need to become her, because Allison is dead. You made sure of that."

The words gut you.

A car horn sounds outside. Dad's rental, idling at the curb.

Allison releases your arm, smooths her sweater, and the mask slides back into place. "That's my ride."

She picks up her purse, checks her reflection in the hall mirror. Perfect. Composed. Jennifer Connors, ready for a romantic weekend with her ex-husband.

"I'll see you Sunday," she says. "Try not to miss me too much."

She walks out the door.

You watch through the window as Dad gets out, takes her suitcase, loads it in the trunk. He kisses her—right there on the sidewalk, in full view of the neighbors—and she melts into it, arms around his neck.

When they pull away, she's smiling. That same satisfied smile from the bedroom, and Dad looks like he just won the lottery.

He opens her door, waits until she's settled, then walks around to the driver's side. The engine revs.

And they're gone.

You stand at the window long after the car disappears, your reflection staring back at you like an accusation.

Behind you, David's voice drifts from the living room.

"You're such a fucking idiot."

You don't disagree.