PROLOGUE
Dear R,
I dreamed of you again last night.
It’s always the same one. And not the usual memory of the night we first kissed, or the time we got caught in the rain and I lost my shoe and you carried me up all those stairs and I realized I loved you. No, it was when we met. Aunt Silvia introduced me to your father and you were standing behind him, your head kind of ducked down like you were shy. You had these dark, beautiful curls and I got this crazy urge to run my fingers through them, but I was shy too, so I pretended it didn’t matter you wouldn’t talk, but your father said your name and you looked up.
Did you know like I did in that moment? Or was it only me that sensed I’d never be the same? Your dark eyes, soulful and calm. I felt like I could look at you forever and find all the answers I was always searching for. And then you smiled, showing off your crooked front tooth, and when I smiled back my heart was bursting with something big, something I didn’t know yet. I’m glad we were friends first. I needed time to process all those feelings I didn’t understand. I think I dream about that moment so much because it was the beginning of endless possibilities. You were the only one who truly knew me. My husband knows I must sleep on the left side of the bed, and I never remember to put the toothpaste cap back on, and I’m allergic to strawberries. But you have known my true heart and soul from the very first moment I met your gaze.
I know I said I’d never write. I meant my vow, I take my marriage seriously, but it’s like each piece of me has been slipping away a little bit more with every passing day, like sand in an hourglass, and I’m afraid. Afraid there won’t be anything left if I keep going on. So, I’m writing to you to save myself. It’s selfish, but I always told you, R, that I wasn’t as good as you. I wanted bigger and better and I got them.
I didn’t realize the extent of the sacrifices I’d make. For both of us.
I don’t expect you to write back. Maybe I won’t even mail this letter, but tonight, as I write this in the quiet of the night and my bed, I needed you. And I needed you to know that I remember.
I will always remember.
Buona sera,
Livia
chapter one
Priscilla
Priscilla Hampton wondered if every daughter who buried her mother suddenly became swamped with regrets.
She’d never been one to question her decisions or linger on actions she’d taken that couldn’t be changed. But staring up at her childhood home, facing the task of cleaning out her mom’s personal belongings, she was pretty much sick with what-ifs.
The overly large Tudor house still seemed as if it was judging her as she walked up the curvy pathway leading to the sweeping arched doorway. Pris had never liked the way the two giant windows gave off an eerie yellow glow from the sage-green stucco, like eyes stuck in a deep-set face. The balcony dead center reminded her of a flat nose and had been the bane of her mother’s existence—a perfect escape route for teen girls to sneak out at night. The lower brick should have lent an elegant, timeless tone, but it all ended up looking like a mishmash of old and new. Still, it was the only family home she’d ever lived in. After the divorce, Dad had given the house up without a fight, moving on and moving in with his newest love interest. She’d blamed him, of course, until she realized her mother hadn’t seemed to care, which somehow made Pris angrier with her than with Dad.
It would’ve been easier if Mom wanted revenge, or insisted her daughters hate him. Instead, she’d snatched Pris’s right to bitterness and swept all the messy emotions away with her usual sunny smile, encouraging them to have a healthy relationship with Dad and not worry.
Did her mother ever get exhausted by the endless pursuit of perfection? Always having to be nice, and forgive, and put everyone else first without resentment?
Pris trembled as she thought of her beloved mother alone in her hospital bed. Once again, refusing to ask for help, hating to bother anyone with her issues, even sickness.
And dying alone.
A wave of emotion battered her body, so Pris held her breath, sensing she was on the verge of either a breakdown or a breakthrough worthy of an O Magazine feature article.
Her sister bumped her from behind and Priscilla stumbled forward. “Dude, you’re blocking the pathway. Why do you have that dumb look on your face?”
Pris shot her an annoyed look. Her fleeting come-to-Jesus moment departed faster than a conservative trapped in a room with liberals. “I was thinking.”
Bailey rolled her eyes and kept walking. “No time to think. I’ve gotta be at open mic tonight.”
The sound of her middle sister’s voice floated in the air with a tinge of annoyance. “Really, Bae? We cleared this day to pack up Mom’s stuff and be together. You can’t even hang with us for one lousy evening?”
“I gave you my day. Don’t pretend if you had one of your important meetings that you wouldn’t ditch us without a thought.”
“Maybe for a job I get paid for,” Devon said. “Not to read some crappy excerpt of another poem you’ll never publish.”
Pris tried not to wince, but once her sisters got going, not even a naked Jason Momoa could stop them.
They stepped through the carved mahogany doors together, their shoulders deliberately bumping, while Pris trailed behind.
“Real nice,” Bailey said. Her sleek golden ponytail bobbed in protest. “Go ahead and judge my life, but at least I’m not pretending to be someone I’m not.”
“And I’m not wasting mine doing nothing worthwhile while I pretend to search for meaning,” Devon retorted.
They’d just arrived and it was starting already. Her temples throbbed with the beginning of one of her migraines. Not today. She refused to let them hijack this day for their familiar arguments. When they’d been younger, Pris had been jealous of her younger sisters’ close relationship. Being five years older than Devon forced her to be the leader, even though Devon had always been bossier. But like everything else, Pris had taken on the role believing that was what was needed. It also erected an invisible barrier between her siblings she’d never been able to overcome. “Guys, can we just focus? The estate handlers come tomorrow, so all we need to do is Mom’s bedroom. They’ll take care of the rest.”
“Feels weird to think nothing will be here,” Dev said with a sigh.
“Did you ever wonder why Mom never sold this place?” Pris asked. “She always complained it was too big for one person.”
Bailey waved her ink-stained fingers in the air. “Us, of course. She told me once there were too many memories to ever give it up. Maybe I’ll move some stuff in and live here.”