She knocked on the girls’ bedroom door. “I’m heading out soon.”
“OK,” came Isabelle’s muffled voice through the wood.
“Bye,” called Flora.
Lee pushed the door open. Both girls were on their beds, staring at devices—Flora cross-legged with her laptop open beside her, probably doing homework even though it was Saturday, Isabelle sprawled across her comforter, scrolling. The girls glancedup briefly, their faces blank. Lee remembered how they had clung to her when she first arrived.
Looking at them, Lee realized she wasn’t even seeing Flora and Isabelle—she was seeing problems she’d failed to solve. Flora’s compulsive studying, Isabelle’s practiced indifference. Even now, she was cataloging their damage instead of simply…loving them.
“I’ll call when I land,” Lee said, though she knew she wouldn’t. There would be no landing, no calls, no checking in. Just allowing herself to sleep in one of those wonderful first-class cubicles, blocked from prying eyes. Lee would eat the warm nuts before takeoff, a hot fudge sundae in the dark, then press the button that would extend her seat into a cozy, completely flat nest. The pills, a warm blanket, slippers, a silk eye mask over her closed lids. The soothing thrum of jet engines propelling her over the sea.
“Bye,” repeated Flora, already looking back at her screen.
Lee wanted to sit beside Flora, to embrace her and help her stop trying to be perfect, stop making herself invisible. But was she seeing Flora’s pain, or projecting her own? Was this even about Flora at all? Words burned inside Lee—not words of love, but words of instruction.
“Take care of each other,” she said—something a caring aunt should say, not something she actually felt.
They nodded politely, distractedly, dismissively.
Bye.
Lee stood in the hallway. She missed the sound of Charlotte’s Greek game shows that played too loudly every afternoon. When Lee had asked her mother if she should go back to California, Charlotte had said yes.
“I’m not needed here,” Lee had said.
Charlotte had said, “Yes, that’s right. I’m proud of you, Lee. Maybe you can bring me to the Academy Awards!”
Lee knocked on Regan’s door, but there was no answer. She peered in and saw her sister fast asleep. Lee knew that Regan was strong, stronger than she. She was already pulling out of her complicated mess, and Lee’s will would leave her family with plenty of money. Flora could buy a new computer; Regan could return to Savannah if she wanted, or not; Isabelle could move to Manhattan.
This was it—the last time she’d see this place and these people. The pills weren’t about ending despair anymore. They were about finally being honest—she’d been going through the motions for so long, she’d forgotten what it actually felt like to love. Quietly, she pulled Regan’s door shut.
The only thing left was Yassus. One last meal for her friend. And then she could board her plane and solve the problem of being Lee Perkins once and for all.
80
Isabelle
Auntie Lee had departed andIsabelle’s mother was getting ready for the ballet—she was going with some other moms to seeGiselleperformed in the Odeon of Herodes Atticus open-air theater at the Acropolis. Even nerdy Flora was out for the night, meeting with her computer friends at a nearby café. The timing was perfect for Isabelle to sneak away to her first real modeling job.
The photographer, Spyros Alexandros, had sent her a DM via Instagram:
I would like to offer an artistic photography opportunity. Portfolio development for international modeling. Compensation provided.
Isabelle messaged back, and they arranged to meet at his home studio. Isabelle didn’t mention the appointment to anyone, not even Anastasia. She told her mom she was going to the movies.
Spyros’s mansion was a 1930s modernist masterpiece, all clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows. He was handsome in a European way, with the kind of confidence that came from always being the most important person in the room.
“Wine?” Spyros offered, already pouring. “This is from my family’s vineyard on Naxos. We’ll need you relaxed for the shoot.”
Isabelle accepted a glass. Spyros led her through rooms filled with antiques and artwork, his hand occasionally touching herlower back. She pulled out her phone and snapped a selfie—her blood-red dress perfectly positioned to show her prominent collarbones. She looked mysterious, elegant, like someone with secrets worth knowing.
She posted to her story, already anticipating the likes, the comments, the attention.
“Beautiful,” Spyros said, watching her pose. “But now it is time to put the phone away.”
“What?”
“My shoots require absolute focus.”
