The scrape of my chair legs against the floor was the loudest thing in the room. I leaned back, arms folded loosely, watching her across the table. The silence stretched, a string pulled too tight, ready to snap. I was still chewing over how I'd respond when Avery spoke first.
Her voice was small. "I'm… sorry I keep making you feel awkward."
The way she said it—eyes lowered, lips pressed tight, shoulders curled in—she looked nothing like the Avery I remembered from school. The bratty confidence, the queen-bee spark she carried so effortlessly back then, it was gone. In its place was someone subdued, almost fragile, like a scolded child. And I didn't know how to handle that.
I exhaled softly, tried to ease the edge in my voice. "Apology accepted."
