Even if Ihadphoned in my last article, I thought. But I was revising it, wasn’t I?
‘It’s chill, and friendly, and close to home,’ I went on. ‘All the stuff I like.’
Mom shook her head, the way she often did when I spoke truthfully with her. As though sometimes she couldn’t believe that she’d given birth to me. That in the case of their youngest daughter, her and Dad’s combined ambition had somehow ricocheted off each other and created someone who was terrified of chasing anything new, anything big.
‘Well, it sounds like you’ve made your choice,’ said Mom. ‘Even if you’re not quite ready to disappoint Lara by telling her. Which is why you’re hesitating, isn’t it?’
My ring fizzed.
Mom had spoken a truth. Yes, the idea of hurting Lara was a big part of why I hadn’t said anything yet. Because by choosing to stay where I was, I was rejecting her, wasn’t I?
‘The longer you wait,’ she said, with a gentleness I wasn’t used to, ‘the more it’s going to hurt.’
Wow, I thought.Spoken just like Josephine.
It wasn’t until she reached over to pick up her laptop case – Mom’s capacity for late-night emails knew no limits – that I realized I was no longer covering the column that readNoah vs Finn.
Chapter 28
HOME TRUTHS
I was up late the next day, courtesy of the generous pours of the Hammer and Thistle and the quality time I’d spent with Josephine’s journal after Mom had gone to bed.
You should listen to her, Josephine had written, when I’d relayed our conversation.Don’t do what I did.
Which is what???I’d scrawled, my pen just about scoring through the page.
Don’t wait too long. Because delaying is also an answer. And that’s how you end up with nothing.
She was right, just as Mom had been. The longer I left things, the more I risked hurting people, and the more people I risked hurting.
The house was quiet by the time I emerged from my room, feeling slothful with my wild hair and silk pyjamas, Cleo winding around my feet. The boys were nowhere to be seen, and from the murmured chit-chat from the office, Mom and Tiff were busily coworking side by side. Just a regular day at the Pink House, then.
But as I poured myself a pot of tea, I caught a glimpse of something unexpected: Rosie was chatting with a stern-looking woman by the gate. They were deep in a thoughtful conversation – perhaps something about permits? Or Charlie’s effects?
I’d made it through two cookies and half a croissant by the time Rosie came back in.
‘Who was that?’ I asked curiously as I stroked Cleo. The woman had seemed unnervingly pantsuit-clad to be one of Rosie’s usual visitors. A lawyer, perhaps. Definitely not one of the floaty ladies who popped in for an early-morning cup of tea and a pastry while the rest of us lazed around in bed, regretting drinking that last sangria or binge-watchingLostyet again.
Rosie drew in a sharp breath, as though contemplating crafting a lie. Then she thought better of it. She and I shared everything, after all.
Well, just about everything, I thought, twisting Josephine’s ring.
Because I hadn’t told her about Josephine’s diary. And though she clearly knew what was going on under her own roof – she had eyes, after all! – I hadn’t confided in her about my dilemma regarding the boys.
Rosie went over to one of her gorgeous rose bushes, magic glimmering at her fingertips as she gently removed dead leaves and browning buds.
‘I’ve been thinking of selling the Pink House,’ she said finally. ‘That was Peta, Paulie’s mom.’
I remembered Paulie: he and Finn had taken jobs as lifeguards for a few Summerweens during high school.
‘She wanted to do a walk-through to get a sense of the place and see what it might sell for.’
It took me a moment to respond. How could Rosie possibly sell the Pink House? Our families had spent countless Summerweens here, and she’d owned it with Charlie long before I was even born.
But then I thought of the whisperwind Tiff had caught the night before:‘It was something about embracing love elsewhere.’
‘It’s just so hard to be here,’ Rosie said quietly. ‘Every spot, every moment, reminds me of Charlie. I go to make a coffee, and I can see him over there grinding the beans. I try to readin the sunroom, and there he is, asking me for help with a song lyric. I cook, and I keep wanting to set aside an extra portion for him. I still sleep on the left side of the bed, even though I could choose any bit of it now. I bring in the mail, and there’s a letter with his name on it that could go unopened for ever. This house has decades of memories, and I’m not sure I’m strong enough to relive them every day without breaking.’
