I’m being unfair. The deal was, Tessa picks up the bill for his care, and I take care of the business. I’m bitter because the business is barely surviving, and every time I visit my dad, I’m drowning in guilt.
“It’s so unnerving. Can you believe a caterer canceled on me at such short notice? People in the service industry can be so unreliable.”
She stops, her hands on her hips, her fingers tapping.
What Ican’tbelieve is how she can talk about this while we rush to console our father.
The foyer is busy with caregivers and visitors, the phone ringing in the background.
“How dare they?” I say, just to annoy her. I don’t think she even realized Iama person in the service industry.
Her eyes widen. She opens her mouth, but changes her mind and waves her hand. Good. I continue toward the elevators.
She doesn’t seem to follow, so I sigh and turn. My sister stands in the middle of the commotion, seemingly unaffected by it. With her lips pursed, she blinks away fake tears.
This is always the case: she offends me, but acts like it was the other way around. Plus she doesn’t ask for help, but guilts me into offering it.
If I compare her life to mine, I guess herapproach has rewarded her, unlike mine. I hate how bitter I am every time we’re together.
We need to get to our father, so I sigh and give in. “Send me the details, and I’ll prepare the catering for you. But you have to source the staff; I can only get you food.”
She raises her chin. “Thank you,” she says, in a voice like she did me a favor, not the other way around, and marches away as if she is being chased.
“So sincere,” I grumble under my breath, and follow her.
“Where were you anyway? Can you afford to close the shop? Nobody was answering the phone.” She pushes the call button in quick succession, because apparently we’re in a hurry, finally.
This is what I get for closing the bistro and indulging myself at a rich-people luncheon and a freaking spa. My father couldn’t reach me, freaked out, and got my sister involved.
If I had stayed at work, this whole situation would have been manageable. An hour ago, I was blissed out of my mind, and the effect has evaporated so quickly.
And since when has Tessa been interested in the bistro? She insisted on selling themoney pitwhen our father couldn’t manage it anymore.
I take a deep breath. “I took a day off. And I have a cell phone, as you ended up remembering.”Now it’s my turn to jab the call button with a sense of desperation.
Every time I’m with Tessa, I feel less, and then I act less. Less kindly. Less mature. Less reasonable.
I hate that version of myself.
“Dad tried to reach you and couldn’t, so he called me,” she accuses.
The elevator comes, full of people, which saves me from screaming, slapping her, or worst of all, defending myself as if I did something wrong.
Why she is annoyed that he needs help is beyond me.
By the time we reach Dad’s floor, my body doesn’t feel any effect of the afternoon of pampering I just had.
I have been thinking about all the ways I can make you scream.
Jesus. As irrational as it is, I blame Xander for all of this. The stupid massage made me miss my father’s call. Why didn’t I check my phone? It was right there.
“Both together? Mr. Winslow will be so happy,” a caregiver greets us when we arrive at Dad’s ward.
Tessa greets her as if they are the best of friends. At least she doesn’t speak to me anymore before we reach Dad’s room.
“Tessa, you came!” Dad stretches out his arms, inviting an embrace, looking even smaller in his wheelchair than the last time.
Tessa gives him a quick peck on his cheek, and I approach and hug him, feeling him tense under my touch.
