What My Cousin Did

The scene fades in slow, like smoke curling from a cigarette. Backseat of a rumbling car, world blurring past the window—trees, fields, all streaking by. An 18-year-old girl, forehead smooshed against the cool glass, stares out, lost in some void. Silence hangs heavy for beats, endless beats. Then noise creeps in, muffled thumps from the front seat, her parents' voices buzzing like distant thunder. Can't make out the words. Mom calls something—too garbled to catch—but it jolts the girl, Rebecca, upright, eyes blinking back to life. Mom tries again, clearer this time: 'Rebecca, for God's sakes, can you try for just a couple hours to listen when other people are talking?' Rebecca rubs her eyes with her sleeve, still foggy. 'Sorry, Mom. What were you saying?' Mom sighs, mutters to Dad behind the wheel, then repeats: it'll be nice seeing cousins Harold and Diane again. Rebecca hasn't laid eyes on them since high school graduation, two years back. Rebecca shrugs, voice flat. 'Yeah, suppose it will.' 'Todd too,' Mom tosses out casual, missing how Rebecca's face twists in pain. 'You know, I don't get why you two stopped getting along after high school. You were so tight once. Remember that time...?' Mom rambles on, blind to it all, but Rebecca's already checked out. She slumps back, head against the seat, arms over her face. A sigh escapes, controlled, long, whispering. Mom's voice warps into static haze. CUT TO TITLE PLATE Up the cracked walkway to a sprawling house, Rebecca's folks—Karen and Bill—get swarmed at the door by Harold and Diane, same age bracket, all smiles and backslaps. They yammer loud, warm greetings pulling them inside: house updates, sky's too damn humid, that bottle of wine Karen clutches like a peace offering. Over their shoulders, Rebecca drags into frame, lagging behind on the steps, head down, fingers digging into her own arm like it's a lifeline. The group's chatter dies slow when they spot her. Parents huff—'Always the wallflower'—but Harold and Diane beam, wave her in for hugs. She edges forward, shy but soaking it up. They fawn: How old now? Mom jumps in, proud: 'Just turned 18 two months back—they grow up too fast!' College treating her okay? Any boyfriend on the hook? They drop their boy Todd—single at 19, old soul, sensitive type, hasn't found the right girl yet. Todd's name hits like a gut punch; Rebecca's warming mood cracks, but she masks it, jaw tight. Small talk drags, wears her down. She mumbles an out: bathroom break, feeling off. They fret a bit, but she waves it off—be fine soon. 'Join us on the patio,' they say. 'Todd's already out there, waiting.' She bolts, vanishes from view. Harold and Diane whisper worries to Karen and Bill, who hush back: Rebecca pulls this crap all the time; they just roll with it. CUT to a dim guest bedroom inside. Rebecca slips in, eases the door shut soft as a secret. Face twisted in knots, she paces, breaths ragged, fighting to steady. Knock rattles the quiet—sharp, unexpected. 'Who is it?' she whispers, voice small. Door cracks open. In steps Todd, her second cousin, all meek eyes and slouch. 'Uh, it's me,' he says, sorry as sin. 'Everything okay? Parents said you were sick in the bathroom. Came to check if you needed meds, but you weren't there.' Rebecca's eyes flash sad, bitter—last place she wants him. 'I'm fine, Todd. I'll head down soon. Just... needed space.' He winces, hurt blooming. That's her line from last summer, post-graduation—needed space, then ghosted him. No hangs, no plans, no texts. What the hell? She scoffs. They weren't besties or siblings—just second cousins. No glue binding them. He shakes his head, lost. Doesn't get why she acts like she hates him, after all that closeness. 'Maybe too close,' she blurts, regret instant. He freezes. 'What?' She brushes it off—'Forget it'—but he presses, eyes narrowing. No, spill it. She swallows, throat tight. He really that clueless? Clueless about what? She dredges up that night: post-grad bash at a dive bar, fake IDs in hand, her and Todd and the crew, shots flowing till dawn. Bartender eyed them, smirked: 'What'll it be for you and your boyfriend?' She laughed then, but back at the table, it hit— Todd's arm slung casual over her shoulder, his laughs too warm, touches lingering flirty. Not just cousin vibes. He was gone for her, heart-deep. And damn if it didn't twist her up. Family or not, second cousins still blood—wrong, all of it. Had to end it cold. Todd's face crumples, shattered. Why not just tell him? If she feared he'd flip, she knows him better— he'd back off, respect it. Everyone babies his sensitive ass, but she never did; that's why he craved her time, felt seen. Why ghost without a word, no goodbye? Rebecca squirms, dodges, aims for the door—but he steps in, blocking. Voice edges harder now. He's seen her pics online, that forced smile nowhere, body coiled shut like a trap. Worried sick. Just wants to talk, goddamn it. Misses her fire. Why the ice? Trapped, she cracks—tears spilling. Wasn't his crush that scared her off. It was hers. Buried deep till that bar night, then boom—real, raw. Freaked her out worse knowing he felt it too; pretending normal? Impossible. Talk it out? Risk everything, cross lines she'd curse later. Better to slash ties clean, for both. Todd stares, disbelieving, then laughs bitter. Spot on, she was. Now he knows? Hell yes, he wants that regret—they both do. She recoils, but he closes in, arm bracing the wall, caging her soft. Make up for the lost months. She owes him. Let him kiss her. Just once. She inhales deep, lip caught in teeth—vows no in her head, but the word slips: 'Yes.'