Florence stood. “I’ll be in the other room,” she said. “Just tell me what you want to do, Syl.”
“OK,” said Sylvie. “Can you guys just stay here tonight? Maybe that couch folds out….”
“Of course. Whatever you need.”
Cleo crossed her arms over her chest. “I feel like the only kid not invited to the slumber party,” she said.
“It was supposed to be a surprise after dinner,” said Sylvie, sighing. “But then Simon decided to confess or whatever and I had to read his letter. Then Emma came here really drunk. It scared me. She was acting like Mom used to act.”
“Yeah, that’s bad. She was a wreck at dinner.”
“How’s Mom?”
“She’s the same. But Syl, there are some things I want to talk to you about. Things Ineedto talk to you about.” Cleo lay down on the bed that was made for her, complete with a stuffed frog and a bright purple comforter. (Her favorite animal and favorite color when she was ten; it was a little strange.)
“I know you don’t like Simon,” said Sylvie. She’d always had a knack for sounding petulant.
“That’s not—”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m going home with Florence in the morning,” said Sylvie. She blinked back tears. This wasn’t petulance, Cleo realized: It was heartbreak. The way Sylvie’s shoulders sloped forward was the same sad way she’d used to sit in the kitchen, trying to stay out of Cleo’s vicious fights with Donna.
“Syl, there’s something I need to say,” Cleo began. “I’ve been avoiding this…I hate having to make you sad….”
“Do you, though?” said Sylvie.
“What?”
“Sometimes it seems like you get off on it, to be honest. If I’m a mess, then you’re the big, fucking savior.” She exhaled. “Cleo, the knight in shining armor,” she said.
“I never wanted to have to take care of you guys,” said Cleo. “Iwishsomeone would take care ofme! Keep an eye out for me, for once!”
“Danny was a terrible match for you,” said Sylvie. “OK? Youtwo were miserable together from what I can tell. You both deserve better.”
Cleo nodded. “You’re right,” she said.
“I know I am.”
“Listen, Syl,” said Cleo. “Simon’s money comes from his ex-wife. Her dad is a crook.”
“I know, Cleo. But who am I to judge? You think I shouldn’t marry Simon, but truly, I don’t even deserve him,” she said. She waved her skinny arm, gesturing to the fancy sheets, the fresh flowers, the stacks of new hardcover books. “I do not deserve any of this. And yet, you know what, Cleo? When he hugs me, I feel better. When I cry about Alexander, and I say I miss him, and my life feels ruined…Simon listens to me. He doesn’t try to change my mind or fix anything. We’ve both been through a lot. And he says he loves me. And that feels…I don’t deserve it, but I want it.” She exhaled. “I wanted it,” she said.
“But now you don’t?”
“I’m not going to marry him,” said Sylvie. “I wish I could. I can’t tell you how much I wish I could.”
“I have to tell you about Alexander,” said Cleo.
“You don’t have to tell me anything about Alexander,” said Sylvie. “I’m going to bed.”
“Alexander’s death was my fault. I’m the reason he died.”
“Oh, Cleo, please…”
“Syl, I’m the one who caused the accident.”
Cleo said it, she just said it. Hearing about Sylvie being held, being comforted, it ripped her open. “I was on the phone with Alexander,” she said. It felt as if she were slicing off her skin: raw, sheer pain. “I was on the phone with him when he crashed. When he…when he died.”
Sylvie stared at Cleo. “What do you mean you were on the phone with him? Why were you on the phone with Alexander?”
