“Lot,” I warn.
“No, hold up, C. I’m not saying what she did was right. Lying about who she is? Yeah, that’s messed up. No argument there. But if she really didn’t know about your dad working for Townsen until a couple of days ago, then the only thing she lied about was her name—not her feelings. You said she came here to get away from her life in Chicago, right? Maybe that included leaving her name behind too.”
“I doubt it,” I mutter, unwilling to budge.
“Think about the note, C. She said she had to deal with something and hoped you’d still love her after she told you the truth. That doesn’t sound like someone playing games. That sounds like somebody terrified the truth could wreck everything and was trying to figure out how to fix it.”
The memory of her note gives me pause. I had trusted in her words. I had loved her enough to wait for her to come back. I couldn’t imagine anything she told me could change the way I feel. But that was before.
“You’re giving her way too much credit.”
“Maybe.” She shrugs. “Just saying, what if there’s something you’re missing? What if she’s sincere? Don’t you owe it to yourself to at least hear her out?”
I shake my head, all the conflicting emotions weighing me down. “I can’t trust her. Or myself around her.”
“I get that.” Lot nods. “Just think about it.”
“Are you thinking about talking to Dice?” I toss back.
“Pfft.”
“You can dish out advice but can’t take it.”
“My advice is good. Yours sucks.” She shoots me a cheeky smirk. “Talk to Lexie.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Satisfied, she rounds the desk and catches me off guard with a hug—an awkward, quick pat on the back. Lot doesn’t do hugs. Leaping into my arms at the market is more her style. The softer stuff isn’t, which makes me appreciate it even more.
“Thanks, Lot.”
She flashes me a peace sign and struts out, her chains jingling.
Alone, I breathe out a long sigh and stare blankly at the screen for a while. Then, I grab my coat and head home. The paperwork can wait.
Later that evening, I make stove-top popcorn like I used to when Soph was a kid—tossing it with butter and just enough salt. I managed to coax her out of her room with the promise of watching the BeyoncéRenaissancetour documentary. Rather than singing every lyric she knows by heart, she’s quietly curled up in the corner of the couch in her thick, white robe, so puffy I jokingly call her Marshmallow Girl. Tonight, though, she seems to be wearing it more like a shield.
I’ve made a point to hug her often, reminding her she’s safe and loved. I don’t want her to be afraid because of Marshall. He doesn’t get to take that from her.
I place the bowl of popcorn between us and sit back. She picks at it, a few kernels at a time, instead of grabbing handfuls and spilling them everywhere like she usually does. It’s like living with a phantom version of my sister.
Trying to engage her, I pretend to be more interested in Beyoncé’s choreography than I am. “She’s killing it with those dance moves.”
Sophia nods. “Yeah, she’s the best.”
“People don’t realize the energy it takes to sing and dance like that. Beyoncé’s stamina is unreal. I’d be passed out after the first song.”
She smiles for a split second. “You’d be passed out after the intro.”
I chuckle, grateful for even the smallest crack in her shell. “Rude, but fair.”
The doorbell rings, cutting through the moment.
“Who’s that?” Sophia frowns.
“Don’t know.” But my chest tightens as I rise to answer it.
When I open the door, I’m not surprised, not really. Lexie-slash-Alexandra stands there beneath the porch light, shoulders hunched against the cold. Her glasses are back, her hair falling in waves. She looks more like the woman I thought I knew.
