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I can’t take it.
I stand up, chair screeching. I’m now taller than that ridiculous vase of peonies.
“Are you guys freaking kidding me right now?” I’m breathing heavy, like marathon-finish-line heavy.
My dad looks around, embarrassed. My mom tries to get to me sit back down.
“Whitney, just—”
“No. I won’t sit. I just announced that I’m getting a major promotion and you two didn’t even ask me about it. It’s a really big deal. You should care.”
“We do care,” my mom says hurriedly.
“No you don’t. You’ve already moved on to talking about Avery’s musical again. I mean, you could have at least asked me about it. Just one question.”
I hold up a finger to emphasize my point.
“We care,” my mom assures me. “Sit down and we can talk about your promotion.”
My weight shifts from foot to foot as I realize I’m definitely not sitting back down, not now that I’ve actually stood up for once in my life. “No. You don’t get it. This isn’t about the promotion, really. It’s just…” I glance back and forth between them, their eyes wide in horror, or maybe just sheer disbelief that I have a voice. “Sometimes you both act like I don’t even exist. No, not sometimes. All the time.” Words continue coming, like I’ve tapped a deep reserve of oil and now there’s no way to stem the flow. “Your whole world revolves around Avery and I’m sick of you guys treating me like I don’t matter as much as her.” I cringe, hearing the accusation. “I don’t think you do it on purpose, it’s just—” I turn to Avery. “I’ve always been jealous of you.”
Her red lips part. Her eyes mirror my pain.
“Yeah, pretty much my whole life. And I know there was no reason to be jealous of you back when you were really sick, except even then you had all the attention.” I screw up my features, shaking my head. “It’s not that I want to be sick. That’s not it. It’s just…you were always the special one, even when you didn’t want to be, and that’s fine. Really. I don’t—it’s whatever. That’s not why I’m saying this.”
I rub my forehead hard, trying to unscramble the thousands of thoughts clambering to be set free all at once.
“I don’t blame you for taking care of Avery like you did. She needed it. But I existed too. I’m your daughter too, and there were a lot of times when I was growing up that I just felt…forgotten.” I take a deep breath, having realized what a colossal mistake I’ve just made. A quick perusal of the restaurant confirms that every single person has stopped what they’re doing to look over and listen to me give this speech. “Oh-kay. I’m going to excuse myself now. Avery, you were really good in that musical, and I love you. And sorry for ruining your big night.”
Then I scoot my chair back further and walk right out the front door of the restaurant, but not before some guy sassily shouts through his cupped hands, “Yes, honey! Preach!”
A gust of cold air hits me upon my arrival on the sidewalk. My bout of honesty-vomit didn’t give me the chance to properly plan for an exit. I left my wrap inside. I can’t go back and get it. I’d rather lose an arm to frostbite than face my parents right now.
Then a warm jacket covers my shoulders and I glance up to find Derek has joined me.
“Ready to go?” His calm tone contradicts the scene we both just left behind. He ushers me to the street and hails a cab. “The Plaza,” he tells the driver before tugging me against him.
We ride in perfect silence. It’s a gift, I realize. He’s giving me what I need most: a moment to recover. Once we’re there, we stroll through the lobby and up to his room as if we’re a couple returning from a blissful day out in the city. He has a suite with enough floor space to do a series of back handsprings, but I focus on the turned-down bed and the bottle of champagne chilling beside it.
“Can I open this?” I ask, already reaching for it.
“Yeah, and I’m still hungry,” he says, hanging up his jacket in the closet. “Are you?”
“Starving. What was in the carrot soup, anyway?”
“Carrots,” he says before placing a room service order for a cheeseburger, fries, spaghetti, and a vanilla—I correct him—chocolate milkshake.
“Food will be here in forty-five minutes.”
I give up working on the champagne. Residual adrenaline is making my hands shake. The bottle clinks back into the bucket of ice and I walk to the window. Central Park sits at my fingertips, seemingly endless. How does Manhattan do it? Trick you into forgetting you’re on a tiny speck of an island, one person among millions?
