“Yeah. I started it after Mitch’s will-reading. I wanted our agreement to go through a corporation, so it didn’t make things messy between us.”
A hysterical laugh breaks out of me. “You didn’t want things to get messy, but you hid this from me, and now you’re hiking up my lease?”
“It’s not personal.”
“Notpersonal?”
“It’s not,” Tristan says hotly. “I didn’t want you to feel like I was standing over you?—”
Another crazy howl escapes me.
“But my circumstances in London might be changing. I’ve been generous with the amount you’ve been paying so far. Some might say too generous.”
“Who? Who would say you’ve beentoo generous?I’m your fucking sister!”
“Cece—”
“I’ve been working my ass off to make Afterglow a success, and you’re going to raise my rent with no justification other than the fact that you’re not making enough money as a posho lawyer in London?”
He scowls, every trace of fake-calm gone. “I didn’t say I’m not making enough money.”
“Then why the hell are you asking me for more?”
He opens his mouth, but before he can respond, our parents swoop in like they always do.
“Cecelia! Why are you shouting at your brother? And out on the porch where anyone can hear you! My goodness.” Mum bustles in between us. “That’s enough of that. Everyone’s coming inside.”
“Did you know?” My eyes dart from Mum to Dad, and back again. “Didyou know Tristan was my landlord?”
Neither of them answers. Mum’s sideways glance at Dad does them in. Electricity crackles under my skin, and the angry tears come bursting out.
“Of course you did.” I set my coffee mug on the porch railing and march down the stairs.
“We never expected you to want to keep the business,” Mum says. “You had a wonderful job in nursing.”
“Yes.So wonderful.”
“Cece,” my dad says. “Don’t do this.”
I turn, look him in the eyes. Brown eyes, just like mine. Mum and Tristan’s are blue. I always liked that, always liked that I could see myself in my dad and vice versa. I know what he’s asking—the same thing they’ve always asked of me.
Don’t be difficult.
Don’t make a scene.
Don’t ask us to choose between you and your brother.
I never did. I guess because I was always afraid they wouldn’t choose me.
I was right.
“You did this.” My voice is steadier than I expected as heartache cyclones through me. “All of you. Not me.You.”
Nobody comes after me as I stride down the garden path and out to the street. I feel them watching me, but I don’t look back. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, again and again, until I come to the corner.
In three blocks, I find what I’m looking for: the alley behind the old newsagent’s where Ada and I worked in high school. It’s been a barbershop since Mr. Eckles died a decade ago, but the alley is the same. A greasy dumpster, surrounded by cracked vinyl chairs, gathered around a battered coffee tin overflowing with cigarette butts. I grab a chair and sit, sucking in lungfuls of air. It doesn’t work, my throat’s too tight, and heat is blooming behind my breastbone. I breathe out hard, pushing back against the invisible walls closing around me. A panic attack. At least I hope it’s a panic attack and not The Big One coming way too soon.
A door clangs from somewhere nearby, but I don’t look around. The thought that someone can see me, see the poison leaking out from behind the easy-going shape I’m always fighting to keep in place, fills me with fear.
