The how-dare-youglare she gave me was definitely about the pictures. I’d broken some sacred rule from her unwritten guidebook:How to Be Properly Uninteresting and Unproblematicby Ruby Boyd.
But I was a grown-ass woman who had just agreed to take care of her boyfriend’s house and niece for the weekend. The same man who turned an ice rink from the arena into my playground, who made me feel unstoppable just by holding my hand, who looked at me like I wasn’t only enough but the whole damn sun.
So why was my chest tightening? Why did that old muscle memory of self-sabotage kick in? The one that wanted to smooth it over, be her definition of acceptable? I hated that I still felt it.
I returned to the living room, pulse racing.
Mom was waiting, stewing. “First, you’re jetting off all over the place for that job,” she snapped. “Now it’s front-row seats to you flinging yourself on that man’s shoulders like a hussy, Melanie! Is that how you want to be seen?”
Oof. I winced at the sting.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears as heat rose up my neck. That wasn’t who I was, but part of me braced hearing it anyway. Maybe being misunderstood was the cost of living free.
“Yep,” I said evenly. “We’re official.”
“This family’s name is going down because of him. See how he’s not safe? His divorce is out there, public.”
“No,” I said, meeting her glare head-on. “This family’s name went down the moment you cosigned that investment agreement with Dad and then refused to play your part by getting a job.”
The job thing had shut her up once before, and it worked again. Not my favorite weapon, but reliable. A can of Mom-repellent. And in this house, I wasn’t above tactical survival. I’d let her drag me into a Sean-themed spiral last Sunday. Not today.
Today, I was armed with a house-sitting gig and a newfound ability to deploy uncomfortable truths. Take that, Mom.
I turned and headed for my room, only to find Sam posted at the top of the stairs. She’d heard all of it and hadn’t stepped in.
Thank God she didn’t. Knowing she was there, that she’d witnessed the emotional earthquake and didn’t throw a rope… that softened the landing. I was still figuring this out. But for once, I’d stood my ground, and Mom’s glare wasn’t enough to fold me. A tiny, triumphant fist pump for myself.Go me.
I ducked into my room, swapped into leggings and an oversized tank top, and grabbed the bottle of wine I bought this week and two wine glasses from the kitchen before heading upstairs to Sam’s room.
Boxes were stacked along one wall, her suitcase gaping open.
“This room looks like the entire city is moving East.”
Sam laughed. “It feels that way. I’m happy I started packing last week, or it would’ve been a disaster.”
I scanned her room. “It looks pretty organized. You got skills, sis.”
“I know, right? Amazing how I became a doctor,” she joked.
“Yep. And doctor means celebration time.” I poured us wine. “Now, where do we start?”
We wrapped up the last of the packing, sealed boxes, and then camped out on the floor of her half-emptied room. We sipped wine and ate takeout sushi, like the emotionally mature adults we were supposed to be. We joked and whispered like old roommates, but we were about to become long-distance sisters.
“Weekend at the forbidden man’s house, Mel? A saucy move.” She teased. “But honestly, you’re different. I like it. You don’t duck when Mom takes a swing anymore.”
I laughed, but something still pinched—shame, maybe. Or maybe the ache of being that girl with a bruise I’d forgotten was there until someone poked it.Sam, though, was reminding me, I had what it took.
“Yep. Apparently, I’m a rule-breaker, vixen sister.”
“Rahab, or full-blown Jezebel energy?”
I’d huffed out a laugh. “I’d take Rahab. At least she picked the right side. I’m not wearing a scarlet letter and catching whispers of ‘Jezebel’ perfume.”
“Damn right she did. She had an edge, but she was nobody’s fool.” Sam raised her wine glass. “To team Rahab.”
I’d clinked mine against hers, the burn in my chest easing.
Tonight, anxiety took a step back. This time was about Sam and the tiny golden hours we still had together. We didn’t talk about what came next. We just hung out, two sisters between seasons. Her head on my shoulder, my hand curled around a wine glass, both of us ignoring the fact that we weren’t saying goodbye.
