Then, calling Darlie agirlfriendinstead of what we really are to each other — half-sisters.
Except we’ve never really been sisters to one another. When she was born, I was spending more and more time with my dad. And after he passed, and I was forced to return to the city, both Darlie and Angel thought of me not as an older sister, but as a sort of unfortunate Airbnb guest they would have to tolerate occasionally as a favor to their mother.
And, on top of all that, there’s absolutely no chance in hell that Darlie wants to go to the salon withme. In fact, she’s probably having a great time making friends. She probably doesn’t even remember that Iexist, let alone that I lived in Seattle at one point, and could still be here today.
But I don’t say any of that to my mother. Like always, I swallow it down and, wanting to get the phone call finished as soon as possible, choke out, “Okay.”
Mom talks for a little while more about her work, about Jarred’s new role as senior partner, and about Angel’s upcoming role in local theater. I offer little noises here and there to show that I’m listening, even though I’m not, really.
If she really cared about me, she would be able to tell how upset I am. I tell myself that I just have to get through the rest of the call, then I can go home and pour a big bowl of cereal, spend the rest of the evening watching reality TV alone.
Maybe I’ll even reach out to Ecotra and formally accept their offer.
But then, as I’m expecting her to conclude the conversation and get me off the line, my mother says, almost as a throwaway line, “Jarred and I watched that video of yours, dear. My God, it brought me to tears. Reminded me so much of your father.”
There’s a ringing in my ears, almost like I’ve been slapped across the face.
I force myself to take several small sips of air. I can’t breathe.
“Karolina, are you there?”
“… it reminded you of Dad?” I ask, surprised to hear my own voice saying something other thanokay, yeah, right,ortoo bad.
“Well, yes, I mean?—”
“You meanmydad,” I say, feeling the fury rise inside me. And I know I should cage it, put it back where it belongs. In my entire life, I have never so much as raised my voice at my mother, and yet here I am, getting louder and louder, the small space of my car reverberating the noise right back to me. “The guy you cheated on? The man whose heart youliterallybroke?”
“Karolina! Now, hold on.”
“You mean the guy who wasn’t good enough, just like I’m not good enough! So you had to go and build a whole new family, a whole new life that didn’t have me in it! And you know what, Mom, I think that maybe you should juststickto that, okay? Because it’s not so bad when I’m just, like, accepting the fact that I’ve never been good enough for you, but then you go and do this shit like texting me and acting like Darlie gives a singlefuckabout me when she doesn’t. And that makes it worse. So just. Fucking. Stop!”
I’m breathing hard, my hair coming loose from my ponytail and flying around my face. It’s quiet for a second, and then she speaks.
“Kar—”
“Stop calling me that,” I whisper, voice low, eyes closing, most of the rage gone now and leaving nothing behind but an aching, cavernous pain.
There’s static, and then, in a voice so small I almost feel sorry for her, “I think we got off track, dear. I had no idea…” She trails off, clears her throat, and if I didn’t know better, I might think there was real emotion behind it. “I think it would be best if we had a real talk, baby.”
I want to tell her not to call me that either, but suddenly, I can’t get any words to come from my mouth.
“Lola?”
Doing the only thing I can think of, I reach forward and end the call, the tears coming hot and fast, rolling down my face. I take a minute to calm down and wipe my face before I pull back onto the road, but suddenly, the only thing I want in the whole world is to be home. To climb into something that feels like home.
The rest of the drive goes by in a blur. Seattle appears on the horizon and gets bigger as I disappear inside it. I park, get out of the car, stagger to the elevator, and shiver in the lack of proper heating all the way to our floor.
All I want is something — anything — that’s going to make me feel better.
And when I step out of the elevator, turning toward our apartment, I see him already getting to his feet, his long limbs unfolding, his gaze darkening in concern.
“Lola,” he says, his voice low, his brow drawn down as he scans me, taking me in. “What?—”
But I don’t let him finish asking that question. Instead, I step into his open and waiting arms.
CHAPTER 28
ROWAN
