“Let me go talk to her.” I push away from the counter and approach Mom with tentative steps, not wanting her to freak out. I settle onto the couch beside her, grab hold of her hands, and clutch them tight.
Mom frowns, and I offer her a reassuring smile. “I’ve got to go, and you’re staying here. They’re going to help you, Mom. Clean you up.”
A trembling sigh passes her lips, and she hangs her head, her fingers tightening around mine. “It won’t work, Billie. It never does.”
Her voice is small—the kind she used when I’d cry over a scraped knee. I can almost hear the old softness underneath the damage.
“It might,” I say, trying to sound steadier than I feel. “You just have to want it this time.”
Mom shakes her head, a wet laugh catching in her throat. “You don’t understand. The memories will come back.”
Her eyes search mine, pleading, but I don’t know what she means. “You mean Dad?” I ask, then pause before adding, “Or Isla?”
She flinches, like I’ve brushed against an open wound. We both rarely mention my sister’s name. At fifteen, she’s only fourteen months younger than me. Irish twins, Mom used to say. But Mom just shakes her head. “You don’t understand what happened,” she whispers. “What we did. If I could undo it all—”
“Mom.” I squeeze her hands, cutting her off before she can spiral. She’s never actually said what happened back in England, but honestly, who gives a fuck at this point. We’ve been in the States since I was six. Unless her and my dad killed somebody, I’d like to think I’d be able to get over anything if it meant being there for my own kid. That thought has my next words coming out a little harsher than I intend. “We all have shit we’d undo if we could. But you can’t keep drinking awaythe past. You have to deal.”
Tears spill over, quick and hot, and she turns her face away from me. “Just go then. Not like you care anyway.”
My throat burns, but I force my voice to stay calm. “That’s not true.”
My stomach cramps into angry knots. My mom loves to twist every word until you don’t know what’s real anymore. I know it’s not on purpose—it’s just how she survives. She clings to pain the way I cling to control. Maybe that’s our family inheritance—holding tight to the things that feel like help but only hurt us in the end.
I stand and let her fingers slip from mine. “I love you, Mom,” I say, meaning every word, even when it hurts to say it. To feel it. She doesn’t look at me. “Bye.”
After sending the woman behind the counter a meaningful look, I exit the building. I lean against the brick facade, heave a sigh, and close my eyes for a moment. The rush of city traffic goes whipping by, making the air stir, and I open my eyes, surprised my mom isn’t standing in front of me, begging me to take her back home.
I push away from the building and flag down a cab. Normally I’d take the subway, but I don’t have it in me to be underground right now—not when this might be the last time I see New York for who knows how long. When I’m settled into the back and the driver has the address of the private airfield entered into his GPS, I open the Notes app in my phone and start a new note titled PETER PAYBACK. If that asshole thinks I’m going to spend a single dime of my own hard-earned money pulling his ass out of the fire, he’s got another think coming. The way I see it, he could compensate me forevery dollar I’ve ever spent and that wouldn’t even begin to cover the compensation I’m owed. After all, he’s responsible for Mom’s demise.
She’s never been able to get over him.
So I guess it’s true what they say—there’s no accounting for taste.
Me? I hate Peter Vale. It’s a burning fire that lives in my gut, always there, flickering to life whenever I think about him.
Like now.
I lean back against the cracked seat and put my earbuds in, a sign to my driver that I don’t want to engage in conversation. I open my phone and check my texts, but I don’t have any. Then check social media. I haven’t posted in months. I’m more of a lurker—a spy who checks out other people’s lives but never posts about her own. Not that anyone cares. I’ve been doing online school since I was a freshman and already got my high school degree an entire year early. It was easy. School is a joke. A racket.
One I’m going back to like an idiot, but sometimes we have to do things we hate to help the people we love. The people we let down.
Not Peter. That guy can go fuck himself.
But Isla? Isla I let down, and now my sister desperately needs my help. And by God, I’m going to help her, no matter what it takes.
When we finally arrive at the private airfield, I pay the driver in cash and record the amount on Peter’s tab. I climb out of the car, sling my backpack over my shoulder, and head into the small building, my voice monotone when I tell the woman sitting behind the desk my name.
“The plane has been waiting for you.” Her nose wrinkles like I stink as she studies me over her glasses. I’m wearing my typical uniform: black-and-burgundy-striped tank top and black jeans with knockoff Doc Martens, layers of silver necklaces I love to pile on, and bracelets in every material from leather to metal to string on both wrists. I flick my dark hair away from my eyes, frowning at her. Her disapproval is a sharp top note to her floral, overly sweet perfume.
Well fuck her.
I offer the woman a curt nod and stride outside like I own the place, running on pure instinct. The plane is waiting for me, just like she said it would be. The aircraft’s stairs are down, and a man stands by the base. His gaze narrows on mine as I draw closer, a fake smile slowly turning up the corners of his mouth.
“Miss Winters?” I stop short, the name catching me off guard.
For a heartbeat, I almost correct him—then I remember the deal I made with my dad. And just like that, Billie Vale no longer exists.
I’m Belinda Winters now.
