Larkin nods. “I was going to suggest the same thing. If you think about it, they really just have Cooper. You visit as much as you can, but I know you rely on FaceTime, and when was the last time Palmer visited?”
“I’m not even sure.”
“Maybe the house holds memories for you, but maybe it’s too painful for your parents to stay there when their children are never home anymore.” Larkin shrugs. “But that’s just me guessing.”
“It’s a pretty good guess.” I take another sip of my coffee, trying to ignore a twinge of guilt. “And then of course Palmer flew off the deep end about our parents moving, took it harder than I expected. I think there’s something going on that she’s not telling me.”
“Like what?” Larkin asks, her blue eyes so intent that I can’t help but feel completely comfortable sitting here, talking about my family.
“I don’t know. There was panic in her eyes when Mom and Dad said they were selling the house, but it wasn’t the kind of panic I was expecting . . . it’s almost like them selling is going to hurt her more than just losing the memories. When I asked her about it, she of course denied everything. Then proceeded to fall off the picnic table, put a gash in her forehead, and break her wrist.”
“Oooh, ouch. Is she okay?”
“She’s fine.” A small smile pulls at my lips as I peek up at Larkin. “She sure did enjoy hitting on your brother, though.”
Larkin’s eyes widen. “Stop! She did not, did she?”
“Yup.” I nod. “Said he belonged in GQ. Wanted to press his chin dimple.”
A roar of laughter falls past her perfectly pink lips. “Wow, Beau did not tell me that. Ugh, I’m so mad at him now.”
“At least we can count on him for doctor-patient confidentiality.”
“I need to know everything that happened. Was he blushing? Did he let her touch his chin dimple? Did he tell her he thought she was pretty? Because he says that to me every time he sees her. Even when I was texting him this morning, he mentioned how nice she looked, even with a cut on her forehead.”
It’s no secret between Larkin and me that Beau has always thought Palmer was pretty. Two years older than her, he’s a medical phenom, having accelerated through his program to the point that he was able to have a practice of his own at just twenty-nine. But for all his accomplishments, you’d think he was still a shy teenager. He’s always been smitten with Palmer but has never made a move.
Ever.
“There was no blushing, but he was smiling a lot. And I stopped the chin-dimple pushing before it could materialize—you know, trying to save my sister some dignity. But do you know what the best part of it all was?”
“What?” Larkin asks, leaning forward, her eyes sparkling with humor.
“Palmer didn’t even recognize him.”
“Seriously?” Larkin claps her hands together as her head falls back. “She was that oblivious? I mean, I know he looks completely different from the boy he was in high school, but she didn’t recognize him at all?”
I shake my head. “Not a clue. Then again, she was also inebriated off bottles of wine. I have a feeling when she goes in for her checkup this morning, she’s going to have a rude awakening.”
“Oh man,” Larkin laughs. “To be a fly on the wall . . .”
CHAPTER NINE
PALMER
“Mom!” I scream from my bed, barely able to lift my arm from the weight of the horrendous teal cast encasing it. “Mom! Something’s going on. Mom!”
My head pounds, my forehead stings, and my mouth feels like cotton. Something terrible has happened and I need answers, now.
The hallway creaks, announcing my mom’s approach, and before I can take my next breath, she’s busting through the door, hairbrush in hand, ready to swat at any predator that might have sneaked into my room.
“What’s happening?” she asks, out of breath.
I lift my arm. “What the hell is this?”
“Oh.” Mom lets out a sigh of relief and presses her hairbrush to her chest. “Sweetie, you took a tumble last night. Don’t you remember?”
“Uh, no.”
“Oh dear, really?”
“Really.” I press my hand to my forehead. “Ugh, and the headache I—what’s this?” My fingers graze over something gauzy.
“You fell off the picnic table last night, got a cut on your head, and broke your wrist.”
“I broke my wrist?” I ask in complete shock as I inspect my arm. What the actual hell? Was I really so drunk that I don’t remember breaking my wrist? I examine the cast again. I guess I was. “Well, at least I had the presence of mind to choose an appealing color.”
“You don’t remember going to the doctor’s at all?”
“No.”
“Well, that is concerning. Good thing we have a follow-up appointment in thirty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes?” I ask, swinging my legs over the edge of my bed. “Were you going to wake me up and tell me?”
“I thought the extra sleep would help you.”
I sniff myself and wince. “Mom, I smell like a dumpster that’s been sitting out in the sun for too long.” My feet land on the cold hardwood floor, and I head to my dresser with attached vanity, where I get a look at myself for the first time.
“Satan,” I gasp loudly, catching my reflection. “Dear Jesus, I look like Satan.” My hair is sticking up on all ends, a small amount of blood is dried around my hairline, and yesterday’s makeup is smeared across my face.
Who the hell was in charge of putting me to bed last night? “Oh my God, Mom, you let me go to bed with makeup on? Don’t you know what that will do to my complexion?”
“Before you start snapping at me about your skin-care routine, I will have you know I attempted to wash your face, but you kept—and I quote—‘cannon blasting’ me with your cast arm. You know it’s very unsettling when your daughter treats her broken wrist like a bazooka and points it at you.”
I chuckle. “Sorry, but that’s kind of funny.”
“Oh yes, your father got a real kick out of it.” Mom sniffs the air. “You know, you might be right: I think we need to hose you down before you go for your checkup.”
“Ew.” I clutch my shirt to my chest. “Don’t smell my sleeping air.”
“It’s hard not to. I’ve been in here long enough that you’ve wafted it toward me, and dear, it’s unpleasant.”
“Oh my God.” I stride past her into my en suite bathroom and turn on the shower.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Mom asks from the doorway.
“Uh, taking a shower.”
“You can’t get your cast wet. I’ll have to help you.”
I look my mom straight in the eyes. “Over my dead body will you wash me naked.”
“Was it when you were in Prague?”
“Mom, drop it,” I say from the side of my mouth.
Leaning in, she whispers, “I think it’s a mother’s right to know exactly when her daughter got her nipples pierced.”