Me and the Devil

40.

The gravel beneath the Jeep’s tires crunches one last time, the sound swallowed by the heavy stillness as the engine cuts. Tannyhill rises in front of us like a monument to everything unspoken. The house seems to hold its breath, the air thick with the weight of all the things we won’t say. It’s the kind of quiet that presses into your chest, like the moment before glass shatters.

Rafe doesn’t speak. His hands grip the wheel so tight his knuckles have gone pale, the tendons in his arms taut as wire. His jaw is clenched, muscles twitching, the air around him charged like a storm just waiting for the strike. He hasn’t looked at me since he shouted at Sarah. Hasn’t looked at anyone. Just stares straight ahead, rigid unmoving, like sheer force of will is the only thing keeping him upright.

When he finally moves, it’s mechanical.The door swings open, his feet hit the gravel, and he stands, spine straight, shoulders squared. He walks toward the house like a soldier bracing for the next war.

I follow. Not because I know what to say. God, I don’t. But because I have to. Because something in me is still tethered to him, holding fast no matter how much the world wants to let him go. Because I’m not ready to let him break alone.

Rose waits on the porch, wine glass poised just so, as if the moment had been crafted for her comfort. The late afternoon sunlight cuts through the haze and paints her in gold, pearls glinting at her neck, every line of her face carefully composed. Southern grace on the outside. Blade underneath. Her eyes sweep over us, resting on Rafe first. Her gaze lingers, sharp and cool.

“Well,” she says, voice syrupy and sharp, “your dad’s not going to like that you’re back home.”

Rafe doesn’t flinch. But I feel something flicker inside him; the tight draw of his spine, the way he adjusts his shorts like armor. He doesn’t look at her when he answers. “He told me I could come here.”

The silence between them tightens like a noose. Rose sips her wine, her expression unreadable. Then, evenly “He didn’t tell me.”

That’s the game here - control, withheld affection, power measured in silence. And Rafe, for all his defiance, is still playing. Still reaching for a version of love they’ve never given him.

Rose’s gaze flicks to Sarah next, her tone turning to ice. “And why aren’t you on the plane?”

Sarah folds in on herself, arms crossed, chin tucked down, voice barely audible. “Ask Rafe.”

The words hang there, jagged and raw, before Sarah turns and slips inside, the door slamming behind her. Rafe doesn’t react. Not really. Just stands there, frozen, like the slam didn’t cut him deep. But he just follows, wordless and cold, like he is already used to people walking away from him.

I linger a moment longer, still caught in the tension, until Rose’s eyes cut back to me. “You with him now?” she asks. There is no room for subtlety in her tone. No curiosity, either. Just judgment. And underneath it, a bitter sort of knowing. I could say yes. I could say no. But both would be lies.

“I’m just here to make sure he doesn’t fall apart,” I say, steady, even though the truth trembles just under my skin.

Her smile is sharp, mirthless. She lifts her glass in a mock toast. “Then you’re too late.”

I leave her there, on her perfect porch with her perfect glass of wine, and step into the cold, sterile quiet of Tannyhill. The house is as pristine as always, not a pillow out of place. But it feels…wrong. Like a stage set. The walls feel hollow now. Like they’re keeping secrets.

I follow the sound of Rafe’s footsteps, slow and uneven, leading me toward the sunroom.  He’s there, standing in the center of the floor like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, pacing tight circles, back and forth. His mouth moves, words pouring out under his breath like a fevered prayer, but they aren’t meant for me.