Steeling myself, I reach for the dress Sharon dropped off this morning. She swore her daughter didn’t want it back, but one look at the label told me this was not a piece of clothing I could wear anywhere near food or alcohol. Or my armpits.
Tiny embroidered bluebirds pretend they’re dots on a deliciously fine lawn whose pale yellow shade somehow makes my hair look lit from within. The smooth cotton caresses my torso before widening into a skirt that swirls dreamily with the slightest movement. It’s an outfit to slay a rom-com hero when he sees his love interest laugh from across the dance floor. Not an outfit for a scene where the main character argues with her overbearing sister-mom.
Amber’s sigh means nonengagement didn’t work. “I wasn’t going to tell you, but Mom and Dad want to come home early from Arizona. I told them not yet, but you’ve been here six weeks, Liz. Eleanor needs to get back to her normal routine with her grandparents. And I could use the extra hands at home.”
I burst out of the closet, furious. So much for not letting her push my buttons.
“I just talked to Mom yesterday. She didn’t mention wanting tocome home.” She said they’d decided to hike the Grand Canyon, then she cut the conversation short to indulge Dad’s obsession with the early-bird special at their regular restaurant.
“I asked her not to. I know you can only deal with a limited number of things at once. I was giving you a chance to figure it out without my help.”
My temper notches higher. She thinks she’s scored the winning point. She hid the truth from me, yet failing to guess is my fault.
“I can’t believe you all are secretly discussing me like I’m a problem child. I’mthirty,Amber. If you wanted me to move out, you could—just spitballing here—tell me.”
She’s right, though. It doesn’t matter if Mom and Dad said I could stay as long as I needed.
I have to get out of this house.
I slip into the dress. “How does two weeks’ notice sound? You can cut me a check for the rest of the prepaid bills. I can put it toward first month’s rent.” Two weeks isn’t enough for me and Tobin to finish the book, so I can’t move back in yet. I’ll need a short-term place if I don’t want to break any more of my rules.
I emerge from floaty layers of fabric to find my sister’s mouth slack with surprise. I’m not a fan of how spitefully good it feels to score points on her for a change. Would it be so hard for her to rally with me, for once?
I have to turn this scene and hope she’ll give me a “yes, and.”
“Zip me?” I look over my shoulder, lifting my hair off my neck.
“YouknowI meant you should move back in with Tobin. This kind of impulsive decision is why I didn’t tell you. Don’t get stuck in a crappy apartment with a dozen Australian lifties just to make a point.”
“We’re both living with our parents, Amber! How come you get to treat me like a child, when I’m moving out and you’re not?” I grab a long cardigan, shove my feet into weathered, flaking goldsandals I hope no one will look at too closely, and run out of the house before she can say anything else.
Tobin’s at the curb, leaning against his freshly washed truck.
“Sorry I’m late. Let’s go.” I throw the sweater over my exposed back.
“Do you want to—”
“Please, Tobin. Please, let’s just go.”
“Whoa,” he says, scrambling to scoop my dress in behind me as I storm into the passenger side. Half a minute later, he has the truck rumbling down the street.
We don’t talk until he pulls into the parking lot of Grey Tusk’s Mountainside Conference Center. It’s the old community hall with a fancy name slapped on so they could charge 50 percent more to host all the same banquets.
The blue-and-white building has the generic, vaguely refrigerated look of a hockey arena, with its low-pitched roof and corrugated metal accents. McHuge stands at the entrance, dressed in full kilt and sporran. He’s playing the bagpipes, because of course he is. He’s a one-man Scottish spirit squad.
“You want to tell me what happened?”
Tobin hands me a tissue, and I realize I’m crying. In front of him. And he’s acknowledging it instead of running for the men’s room.
“God. Sorry. We’re so late; I’ll tell you after.” I check my face in the rearview mirror.
“It’s not so bad.”
He’s right. I didn’t have time to apply makeup, besides a little sparkly bronzer. There’s not much to fix. I shoulder my door open, coming around to where Tobin’s leaning against the tailgate.
“Ready?” He’s wearing a loose Henley in a natural linen color, his blue pants rolled at the bottom. Golden light caresses the vee of skin at his neck. No shadow dares to touch him, except the one in his eyes.
“I, uh. Need a zip.”
