“Then wear it with pride.” Natasha lowered into the desk chair.
“Thanks for agreeing to help me snoop through Mom and Dad’s stuff this morning.”
“Mom took Millie and Owen to the children’s museum, and there’s nothing I’d rather do with my two kid-free hours than assist you, sister of mine.”
“May you receive a crown in heaven for your tremendous generosity.” Genevieve gestured expansively.
Natasha saluted with her mug, which no doubt contained Jane Austen’s drink of choice: hot tea. “Are you feeling better? The flu can be brutal.”
Genevieve faltered. Nothing within her wanted to vomit her Oxy issue onto Natasha. Yet she’d promised Sam she’d tell Natasha as soon as she made it through withdrawal, and she didn’t want him to kick her out of his cottage. “About the flu...”
“Yes?”
Genevieve dragged a straight-backed chair from the wall close to Natasha’s position. “I was sick, but not with the flu.” She sat.
Her sister’s expression melted from teasing into confusion. “You told us you had the flu.”
“I lied.” Remorse gathered like heartburn in the center of her chest.
“Why? What did you have?”
“I was going through prescription drug withdrawal,” Genevieve forced herself to say.
For a second, terrible silence held sway.“What?”Natasha said.
“I’ve been taking OxyContin since my ankle surgery.”
Natasha regarded her with astonished concern. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Back up.” She began asking questions.
Genevieve answered each one. She put as rosy a spin as possible on her predicament.
When her questions ran dry, Natasha knotted her hands together on the desktop and regarded Genevieve squarely.
Genevieve waited, throat tight. This was the older sister she’d looked up to since birth. Wise, funny, dependable Natasha. She’d always wanted Natasha to think well of her, and that hadn’t changed.
“This is really scary,” Natasha said. “People die because of opioids every day.”
“I know.”
“I love you. Wealllove you. We’ll do whatever we can to help you get well.”
Genevieve hadn’t felt like herself since she’d stopped taking the pills. All her emotions were much too close to the surface, and it took effort not to burst into tears. “I love you, too.”
“What can I do to support you?” her sister asked.
“Just ... be there for me, I guess.”
“Are you getting professional help?”
Genevieve told her about the appointment she’d made with Dr. Quinley. “I’ll know more about how you can support me after I meet with her.”
“Do you want me to go with you? To the appointment?”
“I think I’d like to go alone.”
“Who else knows about this?”
“My publicist, Sam Turner, and now you.”
