I can’t help but laugh at myself a little as I turn the knob on Luca’s front door. It feels damn good—?being silly and giddy over someone I actually like.
My smile vanishes when tense voices spill out of the kitchen and into the foyer.
“—?trying to give you your space,” Emmy says. “I understand that. What I don’t understand is this disrespect. We’ve done nothing to deserve this. If Luca knew, it would break his—?”
“I told you I’d think about starting ballet again, but I need some time. I don’t see why it bothers you so much.”
“I’m not talking about ballet, and you know it.”
They’re quiet for a few seconds. Then Eva says, “I’m not trying to be ungrateful. I’m really not. I know this has been hard for everyone. I just want to make my own choices.”
“You don’t always have that option. Not when you’re part of a family.”
“This is not my family.”
There’s another beat of silence, and I hover in the hallway, out of sight, breath held painfully in my chest. Someone inhales deeply, then, quietly, Emmy says, “Well. We’re the closest thing you’ve got. And legally, this is where you belong. So the answer is no.”
“Fine. Whatever.” I hear some shuffling and then Eva appears, her eyes flaring bright, her hair wild, probably from twisting curls around her fingers the way she does when she’s stressed. She stops in her tracks when she sees me.
“Grace.”
“Hi.” I take a step closer, but she shuffles back a little. I’m not sure if it’s intentional, but it makes me plant my feet. “I came a little early to see if Luca needed help getting stuff down to the boat.”
“Right. I think he’s still asleep or in the shower or . . .” Her voice trails off as she moves toward the bedrooms. “I need to get ready. Meet you there?”
I nod and before I can get another word in, she’s gone, her bedroom door clicking shut and echoing down the hall. In the kitchen, Emmy is stirring up a bowl of some chocolate-flavored batter, which could be anything from a cake to brownies to pie filling. Her hair is pulled into a smooth ponytail, her mouth a thin line.
I clear my throat and she looks up.
“Hi, sweetie,” she says brightly. Too brightly, with a tightness around her eyes.
“Everything okay?” I ask, then wave my hand toward the bedrooms. “With Eva?”
Her expression falls a bit. “Oh. I think so.” She wipes her hands on her apron, which has a picture of a hamburger, the phrase Hands off my buns replacing the meat between the bread. Every Christmas, Luca and Macon buy their mom a new apron, each one more ridiculous than the last. This past year, the apron featured the curvy body of Wonder Woman from the neck down. Pretty sure that one got packed up before the tree ornaments did.
Emmy comes over to me and cups my cheek. “You’re a good girl, Gracie. Don’t worry about a thing.” Her eyes are a little misty, her voice a little thick. I’m about to press her, because while Emmy is usually pretty affectionate, she’s sort of freaking me out. Still, I can’t help but inwardly cling to her assessment of me, no matter how wayward it might be.
She opens the fridge and takes out a stick of butter. Unwrapping it, she plops it into a bowl and puts it in the microwave. “Now, tell me about you. How’s your mom?”
“She’s . . . she’s okay.”
Standard answer. I know Emmy would do anything for me—?at least, I’ve always thought she would—?which is probably why I don’t make a habit of going into too much detail around her about Maggie since their huge argument when I was thirteen. I’m sure Luca tells her stuff, but he’d never tell her everything. The whole town already sees too much for comfort. It’s embarrassing as hell, and I can’t stand the pitying glances.
“She and Eva seem to be getting along pretty well,” Emmy says, eyes on the wooden spoon swirling the batter into chaotic circles.
“Yeah.”
I don’t know what else to say, so I say nothing and the silence gets thicker and thicker. Finally, Emmy cracks. “So. Tell me all about this upcoming piano audition.”
“Oh.” Nerves flare in my stomach just thinking about it. “Well. It’s in about a month. Though I haven’t decided if I’m going or not.”
She stops mid-stir, one eyebrow lifted. “To the audition?”
“No. I’m going to that.” There’s no way I can’t go to that, no matter how conflicted I feel about it. Last winter, after I pulled Mom out of the fray of men at Ruby’s and decided to bail on college, Luca pretty much kidnapped me and drove me to Portland.
“For Manhattan,” he’d said as he all but shoved me into a video-recording studio that belonged to some friend of Macon’s. The guy looked like a black-haired Chris Evans, so I didn’t complain at the time. Plus, Luca literally beamed while I recorded.
He also paid for the whole thing.
