“You’re walking away,” her mom shot back. “Again. From something you insisted on taking on, something you made such a big performance about. ‘My dream café, my big risk, watch what I can do.’ And now, what—?” She tossed the listing back on the table. “You’re bored? It’s too hard? You’ve decided to run off to Europe with a photographer?”
“Sorry,” Robyn mouthed to her sister as Krista realized she’d told her parents far too much.
Krista’s face burned. “That is not what’s happening.”
Her mom’s eyebrows arched. “No?”
“She’s doing what’s best for Grandma and Grandpa,” Robyn said quietly. “Grandma needs more help than Krista can give alone.”
“And we would have helped figure that out,” her dad said. “If anyone had bothered to call us before putting their life on Instagram.”
Krista swallowed, because they were right.
“You run away, Krista. It’s what you do. You make these…dramatic decisions,” she said, gesturing vaguely, “and then everyone else has to clean up after you.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“Mom,” Robyn said, voice low. “That’s not fair.”
“Not fair?” Her mom turned on her. “You’re the one talking about taking a ‘sabbatical’ to stay here. Putting off your career because this town is ‘so inspiring.’ I wonder where you got the idea that you can just abandon responsibilities whenever your feelings change?”
Robyn flinched.
“Stop it,” Krista said, her own voice shaking now. “Don’t drag her into this. This is my mess.”
Her mom looked back at her, eyes bright with somethingthat looked too much like fear. “Exactly,” she said. “It’s always your mess, Krista.”
Her father shifted, unhappy. “Heather…”
But her mom was in full swing now, hands moving as she spoke. “You are so unreliable and irresponsible sometimes, I don’t even recognize you. It’s just one failure after another—you quit stable jobs, you chase half-baked ideas, and now you’re dragging your sister into your chaos and ruining her life too.”
The words landed like a slap. Krista actually took a step back.
For a second, all she could hear was her own pulse and the faint whirr of the ceiling fan.
Unreliable. Irresponsible. One failure after another.
Robyn’s face went pale. “My life is not ruined,” she said, voice thin but firm. “The choices I make are mine.”
The back door opened then, letting in a gust of humid air.
“Hey,” Joe called lightly, stepping inside. “Sand’s settling nicely. The beach looks?—”
He stopped.
Four sets of eyes swung toward him. He seemed to take in the scene like a photograph. Krista stood rigid by the table, her parents stiff and tight-lipped, Robyn gripping her mug like it was the only solid thing in the room.
“Uh,” Joe said. “Bad time?”
“This must be Joe,” Krista’s mom said, giving him a once-over that could have stripped paint. “The ‘travel journalist.’”
Joe straightened a bit. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Joe Valerio. I’ve been?—”
“Helping,” Walt said from the doorway before anyone could say more. He’d come in behind Joe, hat in hand. “He’s been helping a lot. With the campground. And Krista.”
Her mom’s mouth tightened. “And you’re helping her how exactly? Being the man who swoops in, plays summer boyfriend, and then disappears when the assignment’s over?”
“Mom,” Krista said, mortified.
