As the words poured out of Cynthia's mouth, she realized their truth. She had known her mother had worked in one of those creepy cult shops her Grandma frequented, but the loss of her mom, and her youth, had blotted out the details. But her mother had worked there, that's why it felt familiar. As for the rest? Well, she had no explanation.<br/><br/>Explanations, Tracy needed explanations. She was fucking up, her gramma was destroying things from the grave and<span style="font-style: italic">he</span>was apologizing. Guilt washed over her, potent and disorienting. What was happening to her? Falling apart, she was, they were... Her<span style="font-style: italic">chest burned</span>.<br/><br/>He wrapped his arms around her, pulling them down, and she tried to wrangle down the guilt. She was frustrating him, she was letting him down. Out of all the things she wanted to be for him--<br/><br/>"When we moved here, I thought that we could start over. No more secrets."<span style="font-style: italic">Oh, God, here it comes.</span>"I didn't even know this house or even your grandma existed before a few weeks ago."<span style="font-style: italic">You knew, you always knew this moment would come...</span>"I thought that Des was just something else you were keeping from me."<span style="font-style: italic">Fuck, Cynthia, you blew it.</span><br/><br/>He'd feel her sob against his chest. She had never cried in front of him before, but she broke right there in his arms, sobbing, and she couldn't in her right mind understand why. She was so overwhelmed. She had no right to be, and alcohol didn't hit her that fast, did it? Her weakness made her so<span style="font-style: italic">angry</span>, until she shook and sobbed harder.  Anger, guilt, frustration, fear, too much. All too much.