To realize you’ll never evolve past who you hate, become more than your worst self, is devastating, because sometimes you can forget. You can live life in these broad, beautiful strokes that feel infinite, can pour yourself into those moments and let the paint bleed, feeling certain you’re not ruining anything, because you’ve become good. You’ve become who you always wanted to be, a woman capable. You can live that life, only for it to be a myth—you were a myth. It wasn’t you, it was a projection of who you wished you could be. The girl you’ve always been will always claw her way out, regardless of how many layers you add, how many broad strokes you manage, no matter how much time has passed.
Is there a universe where Connie keeps me? Where I don’t get adopted? Where I don’t take my professor up on his drink invitation because I’m so eager for approval? Where I don’t have an abortion? Where I actually regret it? Where Connie isn’t sick? Where I’m worthy of being kept, by anyone?
The stars twinkle down at me, laughing, because they know and I never will. All I know is this, and it’s hell.
The kitchen island is blessedly cool, and I lay my face against it in hopes it’ll staunch the nausea that won’t subside. Small bites of bacon, courtesy of Anders, are all I can manage between sips of water, which I can only handle between bouts of cold stone pressed against my cheek.
The house is quiet, save for the birds that chirp through the perpetually open kitchen windows, and I let the silence numb me since there isn’t anything socially acceptable at this hour that will. I know that once the hangover wears off, once I’ve kept a good meal down and I’ve showered, changed, I’ll be well on my way to normalcy.
Normalcy.
I huff an exhausted laugh against the counter before slowly pulling my head up, jolting when I find Evie waiting by the tea kettle, watching me.
“Good mornin’ my little wild cat,” she says, her smile a small warm thing that I don’t want. I glance down at the counter, blinking at my bacon. “How are you feelin’?”
“Like shit. Obviously.” I swallow, pulling in a breath as I shut my eyes against the brightness.
“Beau told me about your fight with Grant.” Those eyes of hers crinkle in curiosity as her head tilts, the freshly washed waves, not yet blown and sprayed into place, falling to the side. She’s older, and the realization has something sinking in my stomach.
“Don’t worry about it,” I mutter, spinning off the kitchen stool to grab a mug for some coffee.
“Sloane,” she orders, shockingly stern. “I need to talk to you.”
Sighing, I turn to face her, a blue striped mug cradled in my hand.
“Your father doesn’t know you aren’t attending your program yet.”
My heart trips over itself, my shoulders freezing in place. “But you do.”
“You know he doesn’t read those tabloids. How can you be so careless, Sloane?” Evie eyes me like this is some grave thing I’ve done, and I know it isn’t ideal. I know.
But given the context—the context being the woman who gave me life is nearly on her deathbed—I could actually give two fucks about getting a piece of paper from a ritzy artprogram who hires professors that regularly engage in sexual relationships with their students.
“I’m sorry?” she asks on a small gasp, and I’m not even sure which part of that I mumbled out loud. “Sloane—” she reaches out, her fingers only brushing my wrist as I wrench myself away and flee up the stairs.
It’s unsurprising that she follows because she’s never known when to give me an inch or give me a mile; she always seems to choose the wrong one. Not bothering to knock on my door, she bursts in, her eyes glassy as her lips purse the way they do when she’s furious.
“I do not,” she starts, taking a calming breath, “I do not pretend to know what it is like to be you. And I don’t deny that you had a hard life. But Sloane, you have people. You haveus. I—” she falters, pressing her lips together. “Iamyour mother in the ways that count, and it kills me that you don’t think I can carry any of that with you.” A streak glistens down the side of her face, and she knocks it away with the back of her hand.
“I have,” I say, voice hushed, “a mother.”
“How is she?” she asks, the sincerity in her gaze lancing across my skin, because how can it be sincere when she took us from her. When she laid claim to me when I’d already laid claim to Connie.
“Sick,” I whisper, the world unfurling that deep seated dread inside me.
“Does Grant know?”
“He doesn’t want to talk to her. She wants to tell him herself.” Evie nods, understanding.
“And this prof?—”
“Don’t do this,” I cut her off, my lip curling in irritation. “You don’t want to know about my life.” My arms find the piles of clothes I’ve amassed this week and begin shoving them intomy luggage; I can’t stay here any longer. I’ll tear at the seams, spill my disastrous energy everywhere, a human oil spill that’ll contaminate everything it touches.
“Sweetie, yes—I do. I?—”
“What, so you can fix me? I don’t need fixin’, Evie. I am who I am. When will you get that?”
“I love who you are,” she says defiantly, and I scoff, the hard sound of it causing her to wince.
