It’s been the one constant.
What would Tavi be like if she’d had my mom instead?
What would she be like if she’d been allowed to find what she wanted for herself instead of being thrust into the limelight before she could choose it for herself?
I finish climbing the stairs, stride down the hallway, knock once, and let myself into her room.
“Go away,” comes her muffled voice.
I ignore that too. “C’mon, sunshine. We can turn this around.”
She grunts.
Maybe she’s finally catching up on some of that sleep she needs. “Do you need a bedtime story?” I whisper.
“No.”
She’s lying facedown, her ankle wrapped in multiple flexible cold packs and propped up on six pillows. Her hair covers her shoulders and the purple tank top she’s wearing, and her arm’s hanging off the side of the bed.
My heart tugs as I approach her and squat so that we’d be at eye level if she turned and looked at me. “Can I get you anything?”
“No.”
“Open a window?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Did Lola do something?”
“Go away.”
I rub my chest, where my heart’s starting to beat erratically. Did I do something wrong when I cleared out her chocolate last night? Or is this just Tavi when she’s down?
I’ve seen her down.
Fuck.
Is shedefeated?
“I can’t make you big sweeping promises that everything’s going to be okay,” I say quietly, “but I believe in you, Tavi. If there’s anything you need, or anything I can do, or anyone I can call, let me know, okay?” I brush her hair aside to lean in and kiss her shoulder.
She shivers and squirms. “Go away.”
But that’s not what turns my blood cold.
Her birthmark is missing.
How thefuckdoes a birthmark go missing?
“Tavi?”
“Isaid, go away.”
I stare.
Then stare harder.
Is she wearing makeup? Am I looking at the wrong shoulder?
