“You don’t know how hard I had to work to get where I am. You don’t know the things I’ve sacrificed to be part of this circle.”
“You’re right,” I say slowly, wondering exactly what sort ofsacrificesshe’s made. “I don’t know. Because you won’t tell me anything.”
She hushes me and grabs my arm, pulling me around the corner, out of sight of anyone walking past. “I know. But I’m telling you now. People talk, and you working here just doesn’t work in my favor.”
“No one knows we’re related,” I say, swallowing down the hurt. Burying the disappointment. “I didn’t even tell them I was staying with you. I don’t have to tell anyone if it means that much to you.”
She presses her lips together, debating my statement. Then she sighs, shaking her head at me. “We’ll talk more about this when I get home.”
And then she struts off toward the dining room, leaving me standing alone, confused, and honestly, kind of upset. I got this job so Iwouldn’tbe a burden, but apparently, it’s having the opposite effect.
After another minute in the hall—and a quick internal pep talk—I return to the dining area to take care of my tables. As I move around the room, my skin tingles with the feeling of someone’s eyes watching me, and when I search for the owner, my gaze locks with Landon’s. I immediately look away, assuring myself I have nothing to be ashamed of. Waitressing is a perfectly acceptable job. Mel simply overreacted because she’s under a lot of stress. That’s it. That’s all.
Sure, it is.
When Christian and his crew finally vacate the table they’ve been commandeering for hours, my entire body relaxes, and when I glance at the check, I let out an audible gasp. He left me a thirty percent tip on a five-hundred-dollar bill. I stare at the number, wondering if he thinks that this is what it takes to win me over. Annoyed, I flip the receipt, and a pit forms in my stomach.
He left me his phone number.
He also left me a note.
Let’s go out. You owe me, Daisy.
“That fucking prick,” mutters Brit, looking over my shoulder.
I shake my head. “I don’t want a tip like this if there are strings attached.”
“There arealwaysstrings attached with these people, Sunshine.” She gives me a loaded look that makes me feel the six-year age gap between us for the first time since we became co-workers. “Remember that.”
I’m exhausted by the time I make it home. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally.
I was worried I was about to walk into a screaming match, but the house is thankfully quiet, and Landon’s car is missing from the garage.
Flicking on the kitchen light, my eyes snag on the half-empty bottle of Cabernet on the counter. I’m not surprised to see it, but I am surprised by the broken wine glass beside it. A big chunk of glass is missing from the bowl, and I frown when I find some of the shards in the sink. I carefully fish them out before they can wreak havoc on the plumbing, wondering why Mel just left them here, but when I open the trash can to dispose of the glass, I freeze. My eyes land on a wad of bloody paper towels, and my stomach tightens. There’s…a lot of blood. Too much blood.
“Mel?” I call, a little frantically. I shut the lid and step into the hall. My tired body protests as I rush up the stairs, calling Mel’s name again once I get to the top. “Mel, are you here?”
“In the bedroom.” Her voice drifts down the hallway from a part of the second floor where I’ve yet to venture. My room’s at the opposite end—you turn right at the top of the stairs instead of left—but I burst into the master like I’ve been inside a thousand times.
“Mel, what happened?” I cry, but she’s nowhere to be found. What I do find is an open suitcase on her bed and a full glass of wine on the dresser, this one fully intact. She emerges moments later from the walk-in closet in the corner of the room, carrying a stack of clothes on hangers. I search her skin for wounds or bandages, but I don’t find any. “What happened?” I ask again, and she stares at me with a blank expression.
“What are you talking about?”
“I saw the broken glass in the kitchen. And the blood! That was a lot of blood, Mel. Like…wow. Made me a little dizzy for a second. Are you okay?”
It takes a moment for her to register what I’m saying, but then she shakes her head. “Oh, that. Landon broke a glass while he was cleaning.” She waves it off like it’s nothing and focuses on folding the clothes with meticulous precision.
“I mean, is he okay?” I ask slowly.
“He’s fine,” she says. “He has thick skin.”
I watch as she arranges the clothes in the suitcase, clearly unaffected by this conversation. “Did he have to get stitches or anything? One time a glass shattered in my hand, and Dad and I had to go to the hospital. They gave me nine stitch—”
“Violet,” she snaps, her eyes cutting to mine. “Would you drop it? I said he’s fine.”
I suck in a short breath, taken aback by her sharp tone, and my face grows hot, the way it does with any sort of confrontation. My sister and I watch each other as I try to figure out what I did wrong. Why she’s upset that I’m concerned. Nothing in her expression gives me the answers I’m looking for.
Mel breaks eye contact first, focusing back on her suitcase. The air in here feels charged now, like if I say the wrong thing, I’ll risk getting shocked. The problem is, I’m not sure what the right words are, and it’s a strange sensation because I’ve never needed directions to navigate my sister before. The rest of the world, sure. Never Mel.
