“Dawson said she accused him of being a rapist. She purposely tried to break us up.”
Gentry has called me several bad names, most of them way off in my opinion, but she’s got her reasons. She’s not the type to throw around accusations as severe as rapist without a basis. “If your sister called him a rapist, you’re lucky as hell he dumped you. You need to stay far, far away from him.” And I want to find out the name of the kid and see what I can do about making sure he doesn’t hurt anyone else. Another thought occurs to me, and my blood goes cold. “Wait. He didn’t assault you, did he?”
She rolls her eyes. “No. Because he’s not a rapist. If Gentry had a life of her own, she’d stay out of mine.”
“You think she’s not going out on dates and partying because she doesn’t have the option? She’s not going on dates or partying because she’s taking care of you, Emily. She’s given up so much to take care of you and your sister because she loves you.”
She snorts. “Right. Because her life would have been so amazing without us. She’d still be here, working and living her boring life.”
“Have you forgotten the amazing paintings Gentry used to make?” I’ll never forget them. Art was Gentry’s whole life and, even as a kid, it was clear to an uncultured lug like me she had talent.
Emily shrugs. “I guess so.”
“She went to art school on a scholarship. She wanted to be an artist, and she had a real shot at it, but she gave it all up to move back to town and start at the local college so she could study for a more practical job. The only reason she’s training to be a nurse is so she can take care of you.”
Uncertainty crosses Emily’s face for the first time. “She wants to be a nurse. She always reminds us she has to study so she can become a nurse quicker.”
I rub my temples. The self-absorbed obtuseness of this child is exhausting. “She wants to get to being a nurse quicker so she can support you. What happened the last time you or Sophie were hurt?”
Emily looks out the window, ignoring my question. Maybe Gentry’s changed, but when she was a kid, she completely freaked out if Brodie or I skinned our knees or got hit in the head.
Emily turns back to me, realization dawning on her face. “When Sophie cut her hand, Gentry shoved a towel at her and made her go to urgent care. Sophie didn’t even need stitches.”
“Gentry hates the sight of blood and is the biggest hypochondriac I’ve ever met. She’s not meant to be a nurse.”
Emily shakes her head. “Why would she study to be a nurse if she hates it so much?”
“Because she needs a job that makes good money, Emily.” At least that’s what Brodie told me. “Your parents didn’t leave a college fund for you and Sophie. Gentry wants to support you two, and she decided nursing is the only way to do it.”
“That’s stupid,” Emily says. “She could be an art teacher or something.”
“In a town that already has an art teacher at the local high school and middle school?” I know because I looked into it once I moved back to town and realized everything Gentry had given up.
“So? She could just keep working for Noah like she does. She doesn’t need to be a nurse.”
“Noah’s clinic didn’t open until after Gentry moved back,” I say. “And she’ll make a lot more as a nurse. Money she needs soyoucan go tocollege.” Maybe if I repeat it enough, this kid will finally get it.
Emily chews on her bottom lip, thinking. “Why didn’t she send us to Brodie?”
Because Brodie works eighty hours a week and has a lavish lifestyle he loves to brag about. But I can’t tell her that. “Because she loves you and wants you to be able to stay at your school with your friends.”
“I don’t care if I have to move. I don’t want to live with Gentry anymore. All she cares about is controlling me and my life.”
“Well,” I say, because I’m out of ways to convince her to appreciate everything her sister’s done for her. “If that’s what you want, I’ll talk to Brodie and see what we can do.” I give her one week at Brodie’s before she’s begging to go back to Gentry.
I’m digging in my pockets to give her back her earbuds when the plane jolts hard and we’re swung forward in our seats. The fasten seat-belts sign dings and lights back up. “You still buckled?” I ask Emily as I fasten my seat belt.
She freezes in place. “What’s happening? Are we crashing?”
“It’s just turbulence.” I check and see her seatbelt is still buckled.
The plane bumps and then continues to rock and buck as though it’s a truck going over a series of speed bumps.
“This doesn’t feel like turbulence.” She reaches over and grabs my hand, gripping it so tight it hurts. “It feels like we’re crashing.”
“We’re not crashing,” I say in a soothing voice.
“How do you know?”
