Her response is sullen. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” I look over at her, and it irritates me to no end that she won’t even give me her full attention, her gaze going back out the window. “I don’t understand why you seem so miserable here. All you do is stay withdrawn into yourself, and you won’t talk to me. If I didn’t know any better, it seems you hate me for bringing you here.”
Rather than listen to what I’m saying and giving some credence to my feelings, Janelle makes a dismissive sound and finally turns her gaze to me. I spare one moment to lock my eyes with hers before looking back at the road.
“This place sucks,” Janelle sneers. “I’ve had to leave all my friends behind, and you’re not even here half the time. I’m stuck with Mrs. Blair, who gets pissed if I sneeze wrong and at least back home, I had freedom.”
My patience has worn thin, and unfortunately, my temper is quick to fire. Janelle’s is, too, which is why our fights usually end up incredibly heated.
I slap my hand on the steering wheel and growl, “Goddamn it, Janelle. What the fuck do you want me to do? You begged me to get you out of that house. I pulled you out of a shit situation, and rather than be grateful, all I get is flak from you. Is it so bad here that you would choose to go back to Mom’s?”
Janelle doesn’t respond—she knows she can’t say she would want to go back. The situation at our mother’s house was untenable. So much so that even if she wanted to go back, I wouldn’t let her. I have legal custody of her now, and there’s no way I’m ever letting her return to our mother’s care.
I don’t press her to give me an answer to a question that would cause her embarrassment to admit that I’m right and she’s wrong. Instead, I redirect the conversation. “I know how much you love reading and books. Clarke is super cool, and I know you’d love working there. I think it would be fun and interesting, but I’m not going to make you do it.”
Janelle is silent a minute before she mutters, “How much does she pay?”
“Enough for you to start paying rent,” I quip.
My sister’s head whips my way, and she stares at me in astonishment. I wink at her. “Just kidding. I honestly don’t know what she pays. But if you’re interested, I’ll reach out to her tonight and get the details.”
“Since we’re on winter break,” Janelle asks hesitantly, “can you ask her if I can work more hours until school starts?”
“Really?” I ask, astonished at her sudden interest.
“That way I don’t have to stay with Mrs. Blair as much when you’re on your road trips over the holidays.”
“I know she’s not ideal,” I say, but Janelle rolls right over me, launching into a tirade that I’ve heard many times since we moved to Phoenix and I decided to hire someone to watch her when I was away. I get an earful about Mrs. Blair, who’s in her late fifties. She’s a widow and her children are grown and scattered around the United States. To occupy her time, she registered on a caregiver website as a nanny, and out of all the candidates I exhaustively interviewed, she was the absolute best pick, even though Janelle was incensed I felt the need for someone to watch over her.
“I’m almost eighteen, Riggs. I don’t need a babysitter,” she complained time and again.
And she had a point, but I was too worried about her settling into this new life with me in Phoenix to leave her all on her own while I was traveling. She needed someone to look after her and protect her when I couldn’t be there. It was non-negotiable for me.
Mrs. Blair does her job well. She ensures Janelle gets home from school, has a snack, and does her homework. She cooks healthy meals. She sees that Janelle makes it to school on time. She’s punctual and organized, if not slightly militant.
But that is all she is. This is a job for her, a way to collect a paycheck. She doesn’t care about Janelle, and they lock horns all the time. Granted, Janelle can be a shit when she wants to be, but I’ve heard Janelle’s laments often enough to know that if Mrs. Blair would show a little kindness, warmth, and interest in my sister, it would go a long way toward calming the tensions between them.
I resolve for about the hundredth time to sit down and talk with Mrs. Blair. I also make a mental note to talk to Reagan, who might have some good ideas on what to do with Janelle while I’m gone rather than have her watched by someone like Mrs. Blair.
“Want to stop for a burger on the way home?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says softly, and I don’t detect an ounce of anger in her tone. I think it means that the prospect of working at Clarke’s bookstore might be of legitimate interest to her. For the time being, she’s not directing her bitterness over all the shitty things that have happened this last year my way.
Although if she chose to do it, I would continue to bear the burden. Janelle has suffered so much, and part of me feels guilty that I was off living my fantasy career while she bore the burden of a parent who can’t parent.
Until the end of time, I will bear every bit of animosity she holds for our mother, animosity she can’t direct anywhere but at me, if that’s what she needs me to do.
CHAPTER 3
Veronica
The old gentleman standing before me smiles wistfully as he gazes off to my left. He’s wearing a pair of khakis a tad too big for his slight size but held up by a tightly cinched brown leather belt, as well as a white dress shirt and a bow tie of blue-and-green paisley. As I listen to him talk, I smile to myself that the days of finding and keeping true love are over. He may have had the last great love affair of our time.
“And she would make the most marvelous cakes for my birthday, all done from scratch. They don’t do that these days. Everything comes from a box.”
I lean forward and pat Mr. Beasley on the hand. “Those boxed cake mixes are for people like me who can’t bake worth a damn.”
Mr. Beasley chuckles, blue eyes twinkling at me. His hand, dry and papery, worn with age and dotted with brown spots, lays across the top of mine. “Learn how to bake a cake from scratch, young Veronica, and the men will line up for you.”
I laugh and rest my free hand on top of his and give it a squeeze. “You are sweet for suggesting that, but my days of looking for a man are no longer.”
Mr. Beasley scoffs. “Nonsense. Everyone needs someone to love and depend on.”
I pull my hands away and nab the receipt off the cash register, having just rung up his purchases. I toss it in with the three books he bought, pushing the paper bag with twine handles across the counter to him.
Mr. Beasley is one of our best customers, and I love his visits. But I speak frankly as I cross my arms on the counter, leaning forward. “I depend on myself. That way no one lets me down.”
The old man looks at me, eyes no longer twinkling with amusement but somber with an understanding born of great wisdom. He lost his wife about ten years ago, and I know how empty he must feel without her. It’s why he lives so much in his past.
I’m the opposite.
I was happy to leave my love life far behind, and I don’t ever look back.
“Don’t you give up hope, Ronnie,” Mr. Beasley says, the only person in my life who has ever used that nickname. It’s touching that he has a name for me, which I believe indicates we’ve become good friends over the course of his time coming into the bookstore. He wags a finger at me. “I have a sneaking suspicion happiness is right around the corner for you.”