End Game

Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Aurora

For days, I couldn't stop thinking about the food bank. At first I'd felt awkward, unsure of what to say or how to act. Giving back to those less fortunate wasn't something my family ever really did—not beyond writing a generous check to a charity or being photographed at a gala that made suffering feel like an abstract concept. But with Nate and his family, it wasn't a performance. It wasn't about appearances or applause. Volunteering was part of who they were, woven into the rhythm of their lives. I'd never seen anyone give so much of themselves without expecting anything in return.

And it unsettled me.
It made me question everything.

I was sprawled across my bed, scrolling aimlessly through videos, when my phone buzzed. Mom. My stomach sank. I knew before I answered that this wouldn't be good.

"Hi, Mom."

"Aurora," she said, drawing out my name with that clipped precision that always made it sound like the opening statement in a trial. "I've been meaning to speak with you."

Here we go.

"Since your little act of defiance over Thanksgiving, you haven't mentioned a single word about coming home for Christmas. Your father and I will be devastated if you choose to abandon us again."

"I wasn't trying to defy anyone," I said carefully. "I'm just... happy here. I wish you and Dad could see that. I'd like to come home, but I haven't decided yet. It's still weeks away."

A pause followed—long and heavy, filled with the weight of her disapproval. "I don't understand this avoidance. Your father and I have given you everything. And this is how you repay us?"

"Mom—"

"And let us not forget," she continued smoothly, ignoring me, "how your father spoke to the UCLA tennis coach before you left. Arrangements were made for you to have a guaranteed place on the team. Imagine his embarrassment when the coach informed him you never appeared for practice. It's as though you're not even interested."

My shoulders tightened. Of course they'd followed up. "I told you both—I didn't ask Dad to do that. I don't want to play competitively anymore. How many times do I have to say it?"

"Nonsense," she said crisply, as if swatting away a trivial complaint. "You've been playing since childhood. Tennis is part of who you are. All Westbrooks play collegiate tennis."

"No, Mom," I said, forcing calm into my voice. "It's part of who you want me to be. I just want to play for fun now."

"You'll regret it," she said, her tone as dismissive as if I hadn't spoken at all. "And what about your friends at home? Ariella, Daphne, Kirstie—I spoke to their mothers. They say you've scarcely reached out since leaving."

I rolled my eyes. "They haven't reached out to me either."

"That's hardly an excuse. You're the one who moved away."

"They don't care about me, Mom. I'm tired of pretending I fit in with them. I never have, and I never will."

Another pause. I could almost hear her lips press into a disapproving line. "Aurora, we have known their families for generations. They share the same background, the same values. They are your people."

"Exactly," I said, my voice sharper now. "They only care about what I can offer them. Not who I actually am. They were never real friends."

The silence that followed was colder than words. Then, in her most measured voice, she delivered the blow.