RIPLEY
I should have done this weeks ago. When Haven’s finished shooting for the day, she meets me in the kitchen. I texted her earlier, asking if she could talk. Her jaw is set, her gaze wary, but curious.
She peers toward the front door. “This isn’t very private. Anyone could come in here.”
She sounds…professional. I feel awful. But I’m supposed to feel bad because I fucked up. “Let’s go to?—”
“The lavender maze.”
That’s where we used to escape to when we were kids. The fact that she picked it gives me hope that I’m not the worst sister in the world. But Haven shakes her head, dismissing the maze idea. “Actually, I don’t want to deal with bodyguards watching us.”
“Me neither,” I say, and when my gaze drifts to the staircase heading to the garden level, it’s clear we’re both thinking the same thing.
Grandma’s suite.Fitting, since Grandma’s is where we’ve both always felt safest.
We head downstairs and rap on the door. It’s perfunctory, though, since after her in-person French class, she went out with friends. I go inside, and we sink down on the couch.
I don’t mince words. “I should have told you sooner.”
“Yeah, like all the times I asked,” she says pointedly.
She’s right. “I’m sorry,” I say, guilt twisting in me. I almost sayI wanted to but didn’t,orI tried to, but it never felt right.
But it doesn’t matter. She asked, and I denied it.
Her blue eyes hold mine, and I don’t see forgiveness yet. “Why didn’t you?” she asks gently.
I blow out a big breath. It’s such a loaded question. It has too many answers. But there’s no need to hold back now. “Because I didn’t want to worry you. Because I told him I’d keep it between us. Because I wanted your first big role to go off without a hitch. Because I didn’t want to pull focus away from the film and on to me. Because it’s such a huge chance to bring attention to the farm that Mom and Dad built, to the town they loved. And I didn’t want anything to take away from that. And because I didn’t want the relationship to go south and then have you worry about me,” I say, my voice choking on the bitter irony. “I never want you to worry about me.”
“Oh, Ripley,” she says. The staunch professionalism vanishes as she reaches out and wraps her arms around me. “But I do worry about you.”
“You do?” I ask, voice breaking.
“You’re my twin. You’re my friend. You’re my person. Of course I do. Why would you think I wouldn’t?”
“Because I have enough worry for both of us,” I say through tears long overdue.
She strokes my hair. “I know. And I’ve let you do that for too long. I’ve let you be my big sister instead of my twin sister.”
My throat tightens with more emotion. God, it feels never-ending today. “I love being your big sister.”
“But sometimes I can carry the burden. Sometimes I can worry about you.” She lets go and meets my gaze. “Just because I was once broken and you fixed me doesn’t mean I’m still broken.”
“I know that,” I say, feeling stupid for even thinking that. After all, she did pull that “send Grandma to cooking school” rabbit out of her hat.
“I mean it,” Haven says. “I know you took care of me when Mom and Dad died. I know you looked out for me. You made sure I got to auditions. You fixed my car, kept me from falling to pieces, handed me tissues, and dried my tears when I cried through the night. And you got me to therapy.” She pauses to let all that soak in. “But I healed. I will always love Mom and Dad, and always miss them. Because of you, I learned how to make it through the grief. Sometimes, you can let me take care of you. Like right now.”
She reaches for me again, and I can’t do a thing but break down in her arms. It’s not only for Banks. Mostly, it’s for us—two girls who lost their parents and had to find their own way, who had to forge a new family together. I rain tears I barely shed long ago. I cry for days, till my face is red and splotchy and my nose is snotty.
Then, I breathe out and look up. “I’m so sorry.”
Haven smiles, exonerating me once more. “There isn’t any real harm done. I wish you told me sooner, but I also understand you in ways you think I don’t. I get you. I wanted you to tell me, but I know why you didn’t.” She reaches for my hands, squeezing them. Then she arches a curious brow. “But remember that day you wore the mock turtleneck to The Slippery Dipper when it was fifty million degrees out?”
Uh oh. I should have known she’d figure that out eventually. Still, I protest feebly with, “It wasn’t fifty million degrees, and it had short sleeves.”
“Fine. Fine. But now that I think about it, was there some new allegedly amazing skin care routine you’d just tried?”
“Maybe,” I mutter.
