I stare out the window, standing in my living room in my favorite pair of fuzzy slippers. I curl my toes against the plush bottoms, grounding myself as I pull in a shaky breath.
A knock on the door makes me jump, and I whirl around as my heart pounds in my chest.
“Lulu, open up!” Zoey yells through the thick wood door as her knocking grows more frantic. “Lulu!”
I rush toward the door, almost tripping over my area rug that always has a corner curled up, no matter what I do to flatten it. “Shit,” I call out, catching myself on the coffee table before I have the chance to face-plant into the hardwood floor. “Coming!”
“Lulu,” Zoey groans like she didn’t hear me tell her I am on my way to let her in.
When I fling the door open, Zoey almost falls forward like she’d been using her head to pound on my door. I catch her by the shoulders, pushing her upright. “What’s wrong? What happened?” I ask, unable to keep the panic out of my voice.
“Everything’s a mess,” she whines as she places her head on my shoulder and wraps her arms around me. “It’s my fault.”
Oh no, she doesn’t. She’s not going to shoulder the blame for something a grown-ass vile man whom she trusted did to her.
I kick the door closed with my foot because my hands are trapped underneath my sister’s arms. “Let’s sit down and have a drink,” I tell her, moving us across the room toward my couch. She’s attached to me like a parasite, and it takes all my strength to walk with her extra weight.
She used to do this when we were little, but she was lighter then, and for some reason, I thought the behavior was cute. Now…not so much.
I lean over my plush couch until her hold on me loosens and she flops backward, fully detached from me. “Martini or margarita?”
“Martini,” she says, staring up at me with tears in her eyes. “A sweet one.”
My kind little sister. No one deserves what happened to her. Am I sad Oliver is facing jail time? Yes. Did the guy he beat the crap out of deserve it? Absolutely. If I’d known he was going to get arrested, would I have stopped him? I don’t think there was any stopping him that night. He knew what the consequences of his actions could be. I did too, and there isn’t a thing I’d do to change what happened after Zoey told me and Oliver overheard.
“I’ll make it strong and sweet,” I tell her as I rush toward the bar cart I set up in the living room for evenings when things are a little too much.
“How much do you hate me?” she whispers, and I barely hear her over the clinking of the glass bottles.
I turn around, holding a bottle of vodka and a bottle of the best chocolate liqueur in each hand. “Why would I hate you? Don’t be silly, sissy.”
She glances down, fiddling with the zipper on her jacket. “He was arrested. It’s my fault.”
“It’s Mark’s fault. Don’t get it twisted in your mind, Zo. You’re the victim here.”
“I don’t want to be a victim.”
“No one does.” I turn back around, figuring she needs the drink sooner rather than later. Maybe if I make it strong enough, she’ll pass out on my couch and finally get some rest. Knowing my sister, she probably has barely slept since everything happened, and if she had been able to fall asleep, nightmares woke her up.
“I’m going to tell Dad everything.”
I spin around so fast and without thinking, vodka goes flying in a stream across the wood floor. “Seriously?”
“He already has ideas of what happened.” She shrugs as she flings herself backward into the cushion and stares up at the ceiling. “And I think he’s imagining something worse. I can’t leave him wondering.”
“You sure about that?” I ask her. “I mean, you did nothing wrong and there’s no reason to hide it from him, but don’t feel like you need to because of Oliver—or me, for that matter.”
She blows out a long breath. “I need to tell him for me. I didn’t do anything wrong, and Dad deserves to know so his mind can stop spinning, thinking of all the worst things in the world.”
“Do you want me to be there when you talk to him?” I ask her.
“No. I need to do it on my own.”
I make quick work of the martini, using twice asmuch of the delicious chocolate liqueur as I would if I were making the same drink at the bar. The shit is pricey, but every drop is ridiculously decadent. “If you change your mind, I’m always here for you.” I turn around, walking toward her with two glasses filled to the brim. “I will always have your back.”
She reaches out, wiggling her fingers as I come closer. “I made another decision too.”
“What’s that?” I ask as I hand her the drink, and somehow, neither one of us spills a single drop.
