“Stop being such a busybody!” I berate her, edging off the bed. I should probably get dressed.
“Wren!” she snaps, giving my shoulder a shove and causing me to fall backward onto the mattress. “Why are you no fun?”
“Excuse me?” I reply indignantly, half laughing as I sit back up again.
This is the Bailey I know from my teenage years.
She pushes me backward again.
“Stop that!”
“Just tell me!”
“No! Bugger off!”
“Damn, you’re annoying,” she erupts, flopping onto the mattress beside me.
“I’mannoying?” I ask with disbelief, sitting up again. I feel as though we’ve jumped back in time.
“Yeah, yeah, I know you’ve always thought I’m a pain in the ass.”
She casts her eyes to the ceiling as I stand up and go to the dresser. I don’t deny it, because it’s true. Or at least, it certainly used to be.
I get some clean clothes out, intending to go to the bathroom to change, but when I turn around, Bailey is looking wounded. She spies the photo album on my bedside table and perks up.
“I remember this!” she exclaims, pulling it onto her lap and opening it up. “I used to look through it all the time.”
“You did?” I ask with surprise, pausing at the door.
“Yeah! I loved these photos of you.”
“Really?”
“Yes!” she repeats insistently, turning the page. “Mom used to get this look on her face whenever she saw me with it, all pursed lips and tight eyes.” She grins at the description and continues perusing. “I hid it under my bed for a while until she found it and put it away somewhere.”
“Dad told me he uncovered it in a box.”
“That sounds about right. Mom was so jealous.”
I’m outraged. “How couldshebe jealous? He leftusforher!”And you...I add silently inside my head.
Bailey shrugs. “Jealousy isn’t always rational. I’m sure she had a whole lot of guilt too, that she wouldn’t have known how to channel.”
“I can’t believe she hid it away,” I grumble, dumping my clothes on the bed and taking the album from Bailey’s grasp. “I don’t know if I’ve ever even seen these pictures before.”
Bailey’s brow furrows. “That sucks. Do you remember much about your parents’ divorce?”
“Yeah, a fair bit.”
“What was it like?”
“Hell.”
She stares up at me, her big brown eyes serious. “Do you resent us for it?”
It’s the most direct, most personal question she’s ever asked me. And I don’t know why she’s asking it now. It feels as though it’s coming out of the blue, yet at the same time, I can’t believe we’ve got to this age without talking about it.
Are we doing this? She’s still staring at me, her gaze open and unflinching.
