After that, I’m walking down the street, my pace quickening with every passing second. I need to talk to Olivier. Now. Cassie has her own birthday as her password, which she clearly hasn’t changed since we were teens.
I flick through her contacts until I find Olivier’s number, and press Call.Pick up pick up pick up.The ringtone goes on endlessly, or at least that’s how it feels, until his voicemail message begins.
Hi, you’ve reached Olivier Laurent. I’m sorry I’m unavailable right now, but please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.
Paul, our elderly neighbor three houses down, waves at me from his lawn as Olivier’s voice fills my ear. The old man’s two German shepherds bark, drowning the sound of my beloved promising he’ll get back to me.
I wave back, my smile tight, and hang up. Another try, same result.Please, Olivier. I’m sorry I stormed off that day you told me you were married. I’m sorry I couldn’t bring myself to believe you, but I do now. Give me another chance. I need you back. Please.
Any moment now, Cassie is going to notice her missing phone. I should stop. Give up. I can’t stop. At first, I don’t plan to say anything. I just want to hear his voice—soft and sweet, not to mention his melodic accent—one more time. When the beep resonates after his voicemail message, I can’t help but stay on the line.
“Olivier, it’s me. I miss you. Please, I want to know if you’re okay. Give me a sign. Anything. I love you. I always will. I’m sorry about what happened, all of it. Forget everything else, I just want to be with you.”
My voice sounds shaky, but he’ll know who it is. He’ll find his way back to me.Does anyone know you’re in Paris?I lied to my love. And now I’m doing the one thing he told me not to. If I’ve blown this again, I won’t be able to live with myself.
I turn around, rushing back toward the house as quickly as I left it. I’veonly been gone a few minutes, but the car that was parked on the other side of the street earlier is no longer there. It must have been Darren’s.
Before going in, I wipe her phone against my thighs, though my palms are so sweaty that it won’t make a difference anyway. But Cassie is not looking for her phone. In fact, I find her sitting on the couch. She’s looking down at her lap. Tears drop onto her new satin robe, leaving a watermark on the shiny pink fabric.
“Oh, it’s you,” she says, looking up and rubbing her eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
I put the phone back on the console on the way in, but I’m still holding the memory of Olivier’s voice.
“I’m fine,” she says, getting up and noticing the grocery bags in my hands.
She heads to the kitchen. I follow her.
“I need to eat something,” she says, rummaging around the cupboards.
For once she doesn’t ask what cereals we have left, if I can grab her the milk from the fridge, and how about I start a fresh pot of coffee because I know how to make it better. Today, she makes her own breakfast and sits down at the round Formica table while I put the groceries away.
When she speaks again, she sounds lighter. Almost chipper. “I should have let you come with me to my father’s funeral. I wasn’t in my right mind then. That whole thing with Olivier—I should never have married him.”
I turn around, clutching the carton of eggs. “Then why did you?”
She scoffs. “You always think people are so black-and-white. Good or bad. We all know which one you are. Don’t tell me you didn’t love it, being the perfect daughter.”
“It wasn’t hard, being better than you.”
Her phone chimes from the entrance and we both jump a little. She tries to rest her spoon on the side of the bowl, but it clatters on the table, splattering milk-soaked cereal around her. Ignoring the mess she made, she starts to get up but then changes her mind and sits back down, shaking her head.
“Anyway, it’s you and me again now,” Cassie says. “And we have to be there for each other.”
A desire burns inside of me as I look down at the eggs in my hand. I want to throw every single one at her and watch their shells smash against her pretty little skull. We haveneverbeen there for each other.Ihave been there for her time and time again. Cassie would break Rae’s favorite vase and immediately point the finger at me. She’d steal a twenty from her mother’s wallet and swear she saw me take it. I never said anything because I couldn’t.
“Cassie”—my voice is so small, so shattered, that I’m not even sure I’m speaking out loud—“are you going to tell me what happened in Paris?”
She picks up her spoon again, wiping the table with the sleeve of her robe. “Don’t try to make it more complicated than it needs to be, Taylor. Everything will be fine. We’re good. We’re sisters, right?”
But here’s what Cassie doesn’t understand: I’m done being good. “Aren’t you selling the house and kicking me out onto the street?”
I turn back to the fridge, depriving myself of her reaction. Or maybe I don’t want her to see my flushed cheeks, my tight chest. I’ve so rarely stood up to her.
“I’m sorry I said that.” I freeze. This. Is. Not. Normal. “And I have more to tell you.”
I turn around slowly, staring at the groceries that have now spilled out of the bag, the jug of orange juice, a bunch of asparagus, and a jar of peanut butter rolling against the toe kick underneath the cupboard. I bend down to pick it up.
