The cashier rings everything up to $27.42, and she kind of has to tug my debit card from my fingers. I’m sure my moms would pay me back for the groceries, but that means I’d have to tell them, and then they’d snipe at each other, and it would defeat the whole purpose. I’ll just put the groceries on the shelves and hope they assume the other bought them. No one will be fighting when there’s delicious marmalade and pistachio ice cream to be had.
When the cashier hands back the receipt, I stuff it into my pocket and push the number out of my mind. With my savings, holiday hours, and the bonus, I’ll still have enough to fix Barbra. Jake was messing with me earlier. There’s no way he could actually sell more books than me. I carry the groceries back to my car and take a deep breath, determined. That bonus is mine.
* * *
I fall asleep the second I hit my mattress. Heavy sleep. Drool-on-the-mattress sleep. So when a door slams open in the middle of the night, I snap awake, disoriented in the dark. Muffled voices seep from the hallway into my room. Fighting voices.
My stomach clenches as the voices grow even louder.
“Stop being dramatic, Alex.”
“It’s called caring, Alana.”
“You think I don’t care? You think I work fifty hours a week and do everything around this house because I don’t care?”
“Alana, you’re—”
“I’m not having this conversation again—” The voices become too muffled to hear. My heart thrums against my chest, so hard I can feel its beat in my ears. I clutch my blanket closer to my body, scared for some reason they might storm into my room, like I’ve done something wrong.
Then Mama’s voice appears again. “I’m going back to bed!”
“Fine!” Mom shouts.
Their bedroom door closes.
Silence.
I’m wide-awake now. Before I can think about why, I’m sliding out of bed and creeping over to my door. My pulse races as I crack it open. Mom is there, in the hallway, her feet shoved into her sheepskin loafers. She turns at the noise and startles when she sees me. It takes her a moment to adjust, almost like she forgot I lived here. She blinks twice. “Shoshanna.” The skin under her eyes is dark, either from lack of sleep or rubbed eyeliner. “I’m sorry. We woke you?”
My throat feels scratchy as I take in her shoes and the sweater draped over her arm. “Where are you going?”
“Just… out to pick up milk.”
“I got some,” I say, blowing my cover. “I went to the grocery store.”
“No, I think you forgot milk.” Her eyes don’t quite meet mine. “It wasn’t in the fridge.”
I forgot milk? “Oh,” I say. “Sorry.”
Mom pulls on her sweater and looks toward the staircase, away from me, as she says, “I’ll be back soon.”
“I could come with you.…” I offer despite the fact it’s god knows what time in the middle of the night, I’m wearing pj’s, and I have a full day of work tomorrow, but Mom’s shaking her head before I finish the sentence. She doesn’t want me with her, doesn’t want to spend time with me. I can feel it, deep down in my knotted stomach.
“I’ll be back soon,” she repeats.
“Okay.”
And then she’s gone, and the house is once again quiet.
I stand there in the hallway for a long moment before returning to my room. Dread tightens around my spine. And my pulse is racing too fast, no chance of falling back asleep now. Who gets milk in the middle of the night? What were they fighting about? And why does it seem so much worse than before? In the dark, I slip under my covers and unlock my phone. My hands are shaking, and I close my eyes and take a breath. What if… what if things are worse than I thought? What if they get a…
My brain shuts down at the thought of that word.
No. It’s not possible. The women who moved in together five months after meeting, the women who raised me in a warm cocoon of finger paints and oatmeal chocolate-chip cookies, the women who, without fail, go to their favorite restaurant for Thai food, split two bottles of prosecco, and call in “sick” to work the next day every year on their anniversary, those women do not get a divorce.
I swallow hard.
It feels like I’m rocking inside of a house that’s perfectly still.
I just want to help. I want to fix it. But I don’t know how. I start scrolling through my phone, trying to numb the thoughts with one-shot fanfiction and memes. My eyes grow heavy and my head drowsy as I eventually make it to my camera roll and watch the video we filmed with Geraldine earlier. It’s so good. She’s so good. I hate that she doesn’t feel self-assured enough to post it. I want to load her up with a thousand pounds of confidence, want her to realize her incredible talent, want her to believe in herself as much as I do. But, the thing is, sometimes we need outside validation as well, validation outside of friends and family. Geraldine deserves all the validation in the world.
If I can’t figure out how to help my moms, at least I can help my best friend. Before I know it, I’m signing up for a YouTube account and uploading her video. My brain buzzes with the potent mix of adrenaline and sleep deprivation. Once it’s live, I copy the link to the video and tap from one beauty YouTuber to the next, commenting on how great their videos are even though I haven’t watched them, and saying, “Hey! Have you checked out this new girl Geraldine? She’s pretty great too!” I try my best to play six degrees of separation so it doesn’t look like I’m spamming feeds.
After sending the video to a dozen people, my eyelids take control and dip closed, and I fall back asleep. But I don’t sleep well. I toss and turn. I hear doors open and close. And then, when I do stay asleep, my dreams are scattered, tense, and as I drowsily roll over for the hundredth time, I remember something—
I did buy milk. A whole gallon of 2 percent.
Chapter Seven
I’m early for my shift, and Once Upon won’t open for another fifteen minutes, but I couldn’t stick around home this morning, waiting to see if fighting would erupt again. Something is broken. Cracked. And I don’t know how to fix it.
Soft acoustic rock plays from the store speakers, and only half of the lights are on, but I can tell from her open door that Myra is already hard at work in her office. “Shoshanna!” Daniel’s voice calls out to me as I step farther into the store. “Help us decorate the tree!”
I turn a corner to find Daniel wrapping a strand of twinkle lights around our artificial tree. I hesitate when I see Jake working next to him, blue-and-green flannel sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing his forearms as he positions the lights just so. Really? He’s in early too? Home is so tense. I don’t want to keep my defensives at Once Upon as well.
They finish with the string of lights and then sit on the floor, surrounded by more lights and tins of popcorn. “Sit. Help.” Daniel pats the floor. “Please?”
I rock back on my heels. “Yeah, I’m Jewish.”
Daniel laughs. “I’m aware. And, hey, Jake is Jewish too.”
So that’s confirmed. I glance at Jake and his brown curls, while he untangles lights with impressive intensity. Jake Kaplan. Jewish boy. Attractive Jewish boy. Rude, attractive Jewish boy untangling lights for a Christmas tree.