NowthatI couldn’t take. Quiet judgment, taciturn worry, I could take. I could numb that. But her guilt? Like she was to blame for all my fucked-up-ness?
I took a swig of tequila.
Abby grabbed the tequila and put it down behind her, on the nightstand. “Gemma.”
“Jesus, what?”
Her brown eyes—so different from any Crowne, except our mother—bore into mine. Staring into her red-brown depths did something to me. Abigail was the only Crowne who didn’t inherit our father’s eyes. I wondered if he’d be disappointed in me. No less than a second later, something acerbic slid up my throat, like heartburn.
I wasn’t even sure my father loved us. He was just lucky enough to die before the question had to be answered.
“What do you want to do, Gemma?”
I rubbed between my brows. “Get coffee. Pop some painkillers.”
“No, I mean, I always wanted to open up a jewelry shop. Story wanted to be a poet. For a while, those dreams were impossible. This was…a cage. Do you have something like that?”
I sank deeper into my bed. “It’s way too early for this.”
We didn’t do this, the sister thing. The closest we got to that was one night when we were teenagers and took scandalous photos.
My sister used to hope for our mom to love her, and since dear Mom didn’t know how to do that, another vacuum formed. When Mom kept choosing me over Abby, we stopped loving each other.
“It’s almost three.”
I glanced out my window at what I’dthoughtwas hazy morning light but was in fact dusty afternoon. That meant in a few hours I would have to get ready.
My gut tightened.
It was just a party. I went to it every year, and most of the time, I never saw Grim or any Horsemen.
But this time…
I turned back, finding Abigailwaiting patiently. What did I want? My dreams are not normal dreams. I didn’t dream of accomplishing something, or being someone. I dreamed of someone who would see inside me and not shrivel in disgust. Who would pick whatever roses bloomed in my shadows, because they loved the pain my thorns brought.
I dreamed of something I knew I’d never feel. As stupid, and cliché, and fucking pathetic as it was, I dreamed of love.
I’d known since birth who I was supposed to be, and so I’d known forever that I was very much not that person.Gemma Crownewas loved, but me? I was very much the opposite of her, and very much the antithesis of whatever the fuck was going on with thisnewCrowne image.
Abby stared at me earnestly.
“I don’t know,” I lied. “A fashion designer, I guess.”
Kennedy’s dream was to be a fashion designer.
A wrinkle formed between her brows but before she could call me on my shit, my phone rang. A video call from Blaire. Instead of Blaire, Kennedy’s face popped up.
“We’re on our way,” Kennedy said, flipping the camera to show Blaire driving.
“For?” I asked.
“TheUnderworld,”Blaire said, leaning closer to the phone. “You said you would handle glam. Don’t tell me you forgot?” Her eyes darted from the phone to the road and back.
This holiday was infamous. Anyone who was anyone would be there. What was I going to say? We couldn’t go to the hottest party of the year because I was starting to get a little too close to the guy I sold my life to?
“No, of course not.”
We hung up after I confirmed I did haveglam—I didn’t, but Crowne Hall always had someone on staff—and they promised to see me soon.
