“Want to take bets on how long before my mom comments on my outfit?” I ask Lisa as we walk up to the front porch.
Lisa turns, dark hair blowing around her face in the wind. “I’m gonna give her ten minutes.”
“I’m gonna go with one minute. I’d say less, but the shock is going to hit her and leave her speechless.” I point to a Lexus parked in the breezeway. “Isn’t that the Vanders’ car?”
Lisa squints in the bright sun. “Yep. They have that douchy custom license plate. This will be fun.”
The smile comes back to my face. “If I’d known they were going to be here I’d have changed into something even worse.”
Lisa laughs and links her arm through mine. “Now this is the Sierra I love. Want to run home and get your ‘my ideal weight is Dean Winchester on top of me’ shirt?”
“Sadly, it’s in the laundry. I dropped blueberry pie filling on it the other day.” More like two weeks ago, and I’d forgotten about it. It’s probably ruined now. “Which is rather fitting for a shirt about Dean, now that I think about it.”
I open the front door and step in, kicking off my flip-flops. Melinda, my parents’ housekeeper, rushes over to get the door, face flushed. Seeing that it’s just Lisa and me, she relaxes.
“It’s good to see you again, Ms. Sierra,” she greets. “And Ms. Lisa. Always a pleasure.”
“Hi, Mel,” I say. “Is my mom around?”
“Yes, she’s in the sunroom with Mr. and Mrs. Vander. Was she expecting you?”
“No, we’re just here to raid the kitchen,” I confess.
Melinda nods. “I’ll let her know you’re here.”
“Thanks.” Lisa and I go into the kitchen. It’s one of my favorite rooms in this large plantation house. It was newly renovated a few years ago, updating the previous renovation from the early 1900s. Now the kitchen is huge, looking like something you’d find on Pinterest or on the cover of Southern Living.
My parents have a chef who cooks for them six days a week. The meals are perfectly proportioned, so there aren’t usually leftovers. But we get lucky today and dig into the spread that’s still out from lunch that was served to my mother and the Vanders. I fill a plate with fried okra and sweet potatoes, saving room for at least one beignet.
Lisa pours herself a full glass of wine and offers me the bottle. I decline and take my food out to the rear veranda. I’m able to eat all the fried okra—which is one of my favorite foods—before Mom comes out.
Lisa looks at her watch then up to me, raising her eyebrows.
“Oh, Sierra, darling,” Mom gushes, smiling as soon as she sees me. Her excitement is genuine. I don’t come over as often as I used to, even though the main reason was always for the food. “And Lisa! What a treat to have you girls over. And what perfect timing. The Vanders are heading out and you get to say hello before they leave.”
“Hi, Mom,” I say, setting my fork down. I stand from the patio table Lisa and I are sitting at and start to go over to give my mother a hug. Her eyes bulge when she sees me, and Lisa snickers into her wine glass. “And it’s nice to see you again, Mr. and Mrs. Vander.”
“What on earth are you wearing?” Mom whispers as she hugs me. “Are you not feeling well? You’re not slipping into—that—again, are you?”
“I’m fine, Mom,” I say, knowing she’s worried I’m becoming depressed again…as if the heavy sadness ever left in the first place. My mind flashes back to what Lisa said not that long ago. How many times have I said, ‘I’m fine’ over the last year? Each time was a lie.
Mom doesn’t know what else to say, so she goes on autopilot, being the perfect hostess as usual. Lisa and I make small talk with the Vanders before they go. I finish my food, then go inside to use the bathroom. The Vanders are slowly walking through the corridor that leads to the front door, and don’t know I’m behind them.
“It’s been long enough you’d think she’d be over it by now,” Mrs. Vander says to her husband. “They weren’t even together that long to begin with.”
“It’s a shame,” Mr. Vander agrees. “She used to be such a lovely girl.”
Mrs. Vander shakes her head, clicking her tongue. “There’s no coming back once you’ve let yourself go that far.”
My stomach twists and I take a sharp turn, entering a sitting room. I perch on the edge of an impressive hand-carved replica of a Victorian settee, and close my eyes. Should I be mad? Should I run out there and demand an apology? They are guests in my family’s house and are gossiping about me. Should I be upset, sad, or embarrassed?
Probably. But right now, all I feel is tired. I inhale as I open my eyes and start to feel something else, something I haven’t felt in a while. It starts deep within, rising from my bones and wrapping its cold, cruel hand around my broken heart.
Fear.
Chapter 8
Chase
I pop the top on my can of beer and sit back on the porch swing, pushing off the wooden boards beneath me just enough to sway back and forth through the air. A cool breeze comes from the north, bringing with it the heavy scent of rain.
The screen door opens and shuts, and the porch vibrates with each step Josh takes.
“That wasn’t too awkward, was it?” he asks, leaning against the railing.
I let out a snort of laughter and bring my beer to my lips.
“I’ll talk with her,” Josh offers.
“It’s fine. I get it, and I get that the wound is still fresh.” Josh invited me over for a family dinner, one that included his mother, who goes through no trouble to cover up her feelings for me. “Sometimes people need someone to hate. To look at as the bad guy. Life is hard, and making someone be the villain makes you forget that your entire existence is just a crapshoot. Bad things happen to good people. Bad things happen to bad people. It’s random chance. But blaming someone makes it easier.” I take a glance at my brother. “And she needs me to be that person right now. So let her.”
“That’s wise. I didn’t know you had so much infinite wisdom in you.”
I shrug. “When you screw up enough, you learn shit.”
“Screw up and learn shit.” Josh laughs. “That’s a good motto.”
“It’s been mine for years. Lord knows I’ve screwed up a time or two.”
“Still, I feel like I should apologize. She’s acting like a child, and honestly, it’s embarrassing.”
“She is, but don’t worry about it.” For the first hour I was over, Mrs. Henson pretended like I wasn’t there. Didn’t look at me, didn’t acknowledge my presence at all. Even Dakota noticed and said something.
And I really do get it. Looking at me reminds her that her husband was unfaithful, that he sought comfort elsewhere, essentially making her feel like she wasn’t good enough. I’m not the one to blame for my father’s actions, but now that he’s gone I’m the only one for her to blame.
Well, besides my mother. But that requires seeing her. Finding her. Knowing what the hell state of mind she’ll be in that day depending on what drugs she pushed into her body.