An hour ago—while we shared a Wendy’s Frosty in his truck and listened to the wholeLemonadealbum with the windows down—Liam talked me through which professional teams are openly considering him. Then he offered his opinions on each city, in between words likeweandyouandtogetherandwith me.
He pulls back to look at me, a reflective pain in his own eyes. He pushes my hair off my forehead. “Then I won’t.”
Shakily, I get off his lap and go to the sink, splash some water on my face, towel it dry. Then I go to the door, fling it open, grab Folly by the wrist, and hug her tight.
Which makesherburst into tears.
She tries to apologize for—I don’t know, all of it?—while crying but can’t get the words out, and I guide her over to the couch and put her in the corner with a blanket and glass of water.
“I’ll be in your room,” Liam says, standing and pressing his mouth to the side of my head. I nod at him, smiling quickly in thanks before sitting on the opposite end of the couch.
“Is that your boyfriend?” Folly asks with a sniffle.
“Um, sort of,” I say, glancing at the cracked door of my room. “I mean, yeah, I guess he is.”
She nods in understanding—Folly has experienced every variation of the wordsituationship—and takes a large gulp of water.
“Who gave you this address?” I ask.
“Zara,” she admits, shooting me a guilty look. “I talked to her on the phone this morning. Candice and Maren, too. I wanted them to hear from me directly before they found out I came to see you.”
I arch an eyebrow. “How’d that go?”
“About as well as this has been going.” She tries to hold a straight face, but it morphs into a smile. Folly’s never been good at holding on to one emotion when she starts to feel the next one. I watch the humor of her situation settle over her.
“The prodigal sister,” I say.
“I’ve talked to Dad every now and then. He’s the one who told me you were living here.”
I roll my eyes. “Just like Dad to hear from you and respect your wishesnotto tell us.”
She shrugs. “He said you and Zara never asked.”
I’m suddenly remembering all the times when we were small, and Zara and I would ask the rest of our family questions about Mom. They’d shoot us down, tell us to stop bringing it up.
“I think we’d sort of been conditioned not to,” I whisper.
She nods. “I’ve come to realize I was subconsciously modeling Mom’s behavior by running off. At the time, the guy I was dating told me my family was toxic and I should cut myself off from them.” Folly rolls her eyes, like she’s over this, but I frown anyway. “It took me a year and a half to realize the full extent of what I’d done—what he’d convinced me to do—and by the time I got out of that relationship, all I could think about was how I didn’t want to be anything like our mother.”
My comparison outside must have really sliced her.
“Where’ve you been for the last six months?” I ask. Though I know the answer, even before she says it.
“I drove around out west in a camper van for a little while. And then I tracked Mom down,” Folly whispers. “Just so I could—find closure, I guess?”
My stomach twists.
“She’s a manager at a jazz club, in a hotel in San Diego. She has a husband. He’s a car salesman. They have a dog. No kids.”
I’d always wondered, though we all pretty much knew she was done with children.
“I saw her across the street from the hotel,” Folly goes on. “It wasn’t a busy street. We locked eyes, and I knew she recognized me. We both just sort of stood there for a minute, staring at each other, and when it was clear she wasn’t going to cross for me, that I’d have to be the one, I decided not to cross for her.”
Folly’s eyes lift back to mine. “I turned around. Went to the airport. Flew here. Chose my family, prayed you’d all forgive me, and vowed to never let the woman who birthed us influence my decisions again.”
“As if your sisters wouldn’t forgive you for anything,” I grumble, pulling her into a hug.
“Maren?” she counters.
