“Why would she do that?” My chest constricts with each breath. I tug at the tight fabric of my dress that suctions to my ribs. What if her friend saw me walk out of the sexual health clinic instead? How do I explain checking for STDs?
Lo kneels in front of me and presses a warm wash cloth to my forehead. A flashback hits me—of doing the same to him. In less than a few hours, we’ve switched places.
“Rose can be cruel,” Lo reminds me.
I shake my head. “She was hurt.” And this is how Rose Calloway retaliates against someone who’s affected her. “She wanted me to tell her first.” I rub my eyes, trembling. How will Rose take the knowledge that I sleep around? Will she hate me afterwards? I have no clue. Predicting her reaction has caused restless nights, and so I decided it’s safe to just keep my nighttime activities to myself. I thought it would be easier on everyone.
“Breathe, Lil,” he whispers. When I inhale and exhale in synchronization, he deserts the washcloth for his flask. After a couple swigs, he wipes his mouth with his hand and rests against the sink cabinets.
“This is getting harder.” I stare at my hands, as though they hold my intangible lies.
“I know,” he breathes. I wait for him to say the words,I’m done pretending.
Instead, we eat the silence. The swish of his alcohol and my sniffles are the only music to our misery.
Someone knocks on the door, and Lo stuffs the flask back into my purse.
“Lily? Can I talk to you?” Poppy asks.
Lo glances at me for what to do. I nod. And he goes to the sink, putting his mouth underneath the faucet. He spits water back into the bowl and then opens the door.
Poppy gives him a warm, maternal smile. “Your father wants to talk with you. He’s waiting in the parlor.”
Lo practically slams the door on his way out.
Poppy fiddles with her fingers while I stare at the black marble floor. “I didn’t know Rose was going to say anything. She told me this morning, and I thought we’d have a chance to talk to you before announcing anything to Mom and Dad.”
I unclip my heels and set my toes on the cool marble, not strong enough for words.
Poppy fills the void. “Rose is going through a tough time. She sees Daisy with her modeling career, you have Loren, and I’m busy with my daughter.” She pauses. “You know Calloway Couture was just dropped by Saks?”
I frown deeply, not realizing.
Rose built Calloway Couture with our mother as a little side business when she turned fifteen. Years later, it’s grown into a profitable fashion line that Rose can call her own. I never ask about her months or her life. Yet, she always finds the time to ask about mine.
“I’ve tried to call you,” Poppy continues. “For two months, and you haven’t answered. Lo hasn’t answered. If Rose doesn’t stop by and assure me that you’re alive, sometimes I wonder…” Her voice turns grave. “I can’t help but think you’ve eliminated us from your life.”
I don’t dare look at her. Tears prick my eyes, burning, but I hold them back.It’s easier this way, I remind myself.It’s easier if they know nothing. It’s easier to disappear.
“I was in college too, and I know your social life and studies can take precedent over family, but you don’t have to cut us out completely.” She pauses again. “Maria is three. I’d love for you to be a part of her life. You’re good with her—whenever you’re around.” She takes an unsure step forwardand reaches out for me. “I’m here for you. I need you to know that.”
I rise on two shaky legs and let her wrap her arms around my shoulders, squeezing me tightly. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. She sniffs, her tears falling on my back. After pulling away, I inhale. “Thanks, Poppy.”
Her words defeated me, tearing down any ounce of resilience. I have nothing left to give, no comfort to spare. I feel like a shell, waiting for the hermit to return home.
CHAPTER FIVE
Days moveby in a sluggish haze filled with random bodies and carnal highs. I try to keep to my word and answer my sisters’ calls (I still screen my parents), but at times, my runaway phone acts like an angst-ridden teen and goes missing. Usually, I’m too self-absorbed in bodily pursuits to care.
I also have one valid excuse to keep my phone off.
Class.
Business and economics courses at Penn hijack my time. Maybe I should’ve picked an easier major, but my talents start and stop at being able to woo a boy into bed. And most girls can easily succeed where I do.
Life would make more sense if I happened to be a prodigy in art or music. I’d have a direction, a purpose. Then maybe my future wouldn’t look so blank.
Since my artistic gifts peak at stick figures and whistling, I’m stuck with statistics. At noon, I sit beside Lo in the very back auditorium row. Managerial Economics and Game Theory—it really does exist. And I understand about 1.111% of the professor’s dry lecture.
