Chapter 117
ISABELLA
The three of us climbed into my car — Matt and Caroline folding into the back seat while I slid into the driver’s side without a word. Naturally. I was always the one at the wheel, the one responsible for everyone, whether I liked it or not.
Levi followed close behind in his Ferrari — the latest edition, I could tell. It was the first time he’d be seeing our home, and something about that made me nervous in a way I hadn’t expected. I pressed my lips together, knuckles tightening briefly on the steering wheel. Whatever judgments were about to come, I was powerless to avoid them. It’s not like he didn’t already know we were from different worlds anyway.
The silence in the car was oppressive — thick, physical — as if we were all sitting under a heavy blanket we hadn’t consented to. I was still seething from the earlier exchange between Levi and Caroline; my knuckles tightened on the steering wheel, and I could feel my siblings shifting in their seats, acutely aware I was mad. Finally, unable to bear it a moment longer, I broke the silence. “Caroline, you really need to learn when to hold your tongue.”
Matt sighed quietly from the back seat. “She’s right, kiddo.” His tone was meant to soften the rebuke, but it fell a little flat.
Caroline crossed her arms in that dramatic, defensive way she’d mastered over the years. I kept my eyes forward, but through the rearview mirror I saw her stiffening. “But he didn’t seem to have a problem with what I said. I wasn’t wrong. I was just making a point.”
“Maybe so, but it’s not your place to question him.” The words came sharper than I intended, a reflection of my own nervous energy. “He’s much older, and if there were a lecture to be given, I’d be the one to do it.”
She turned back toward me, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “You didn’t seem in the mood.”
Something in me snapped. “Shut your mouth, Caroline.” The silence fell immediately afterwards — a raw, painful void. “Learn this: not everyone will be religious, okay? You don’t always have to give someone a lecture when they say they don’t believe in God. Maybe you wouldn’t believe in God either if I hadn’t kept you sheltered from the world. Do not talk to my guest like that ever again.”
“Hey, both of you, cool it.” Matt’s voice was firm, trying to cut through the mounting tension.
I pressed my lips together, battling a rush of regret. Why had I gotten so angry over something so trivial? Why was I protective of Levi, of all people? He hadn’t seemed mad — mostly chill. So why did I take it upon myself?
God! My feelings for him are rushing back like a tsunami, destroying everything in their path — my resolve, my common sense, my need for self-preservation. This is bad!
But I let the tension linger…
We fell back into silence. The rest of the drive seemed endless, and when we arrived home, I pressed the brakes a little hard in the gravel. I hopped out first, ignoring the silence that fell when Caroline opened her door and walked away without a word, leaving Matt and me with the bags.
“Caroline...” I called after her, but she kept going, letting the wooden gate to the garden and then the front door swallow her up. Matt sighed and followed quietly in her wake, not trusting himself to say more.
I remained outside, waiting. I told myself it was to make sure the car was safely locked, but the true reason was a nervous curiosity — a gnawing feeling I hadn’t quite gotten to the bottom of.
What was taking Levi so long to get here when he’d been just behind us?
When Levi arrived, he parked his sleek black car right in front of the building but stayed inside, as though stepping into my world required more effort than he was willing to make. I’d been baking in the afternoon sun for long enough, waiting for him to decide whether he’d join me. My patience snapped. I strode forward, grabbed the bags from the back seat, and carried them into our apartment myself.
Crossing the threshold into the dimly lit living room, a sudden awareness told me I was no longer alone. I turned around and there he was, standing tall and composed, his gaze unwavering as he assessed every detail. He glanced at the small dining table with its scuffed top, the threadbare sofa that sagged in the middle, and the few pieces of furniture arranged just enough to make the room livable.
“Are you going to keep staring at my apartment or do you have something to say?” I demanded, my voice thick with irritation. Whatever curiosity or nervous tension I’d felt moments before vanished entirely and left only a hot surge of indignation. His look felt like an unspoken verdict, a painful reminder of the day his father had observed me during the trial. In that moment I tightened my hold on the bags and braced myself; I would not let him, or anyone else, dismiss what I had built here.
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