Mallory lifts my arms as if she’s searching for wounds or tears in my clothes. “I stayed awake all night waiting for you to come home!”
“You did?” I ask as tears spill from my eyes.
“Of course I did.”
My lip trembles. “But don’t you hate me for what I said?”
Mallory shakes her head. “You’re my sister. I can’t hate you.”
That isn’t true. What I said to her before I left was awful. It would make sense if she hated me.
My hands fly through the air, unruly. “Yes, you can! I deserve it!”
Mallory steps back. “How could you think that?”
I tilt my head and blink until I can see her through my tears. “Because it’s true. I’m too hard to love.” My voice cracks.
I notice Myles’s head jerks up and he looks directly at me. I can’t quite read his expression. It’s like it's caught between anger and shock.
“That’s not true,” Mallory says, pulling my attention back to her.
How can she say that? She knows just how true it is. I’ve done nothing but make her life harder.
“I’ve never done anything good in my life. I’m not like you!” I yell, chest heaving like I’m going to start hyperventilating any second. “I’m a screwup! I ruin everything I’ve ever touched. But some silly part of me thought if I could find Mom and beg her to take me back, I’d be worthy of being loved, but she . . .” My breath catches. “She pretended not to know me. She doesn’t want me. I’m so awful that no one wants me.” I point to myself. “I don’t even want me.”
“Who cares what she thinks? She left!”
“I care!” My chest is about to explode. “I need her to want me!”
“No, you don’t.” Mallory looks me right in the eyes. “She doesn’t deserve you.”
“That’s not true. I don’t deserveher, and she knows it.”
Mallory’s face falls as she whispers, “Oh, Emma.”
I bite my lip, trying to stop myself from looking even more pathetic than I already do. “And you don’t deserve a sister like me. You’re so perfect, and I want to be like you. If I was like you, I’d be easier to love.”
Mallory shakes her head. “No.”
“Yes, everything would be better if I was like you. Dad wouldn’t be stressed, and maybe Mom would still be here—”
“Stop!” Mallory says, holding her hands to her ears. “I’m not perfect.”
I wrap my arms around myself like it’ll keep me together. “Yes, you are. You always have been. You always know the right thing to do and say without even trying. It’s like you were born with all the right parts and I wasn’t. I’m defective.”
Mallory’s face pales more. “No. You don’t want to be like me.”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better and it’s not working.”
“Do you realize how badly I want to act like you?” she asks. “I wasn’t born perfect. I force myself to be that, and I’m under so much pressure to keep being perfect it makes me sick. I throw up from the stress.”
My heart plummets. “What?”
“I’ve always been jealous of you because you didn't have to be perfect. I’m scared of making mistakes and disappointing everyone. I think about every decision of every day, scrutinizing each detail. Most of the time I can’t breathe because I’m so afraid of doing something wrong.”
I notice the tears in her eyes and I know she means every word. How could I have missed this? Was I so focused on myself and my own pain that I didn’t see hers?
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.
