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“Girls.” Melody sucks in a breath. “I need to tell you why we’re really here.”
Mel explains that the New York Ballet wants to open a branch in Los Angeles, and they’re considering her for the co-founder role. There are tears hanging on her lower lashes as she delivers the news. My heart hurts because normally—a year ago—even though we weren’t super close, she would have told me about it before she confided in anyone else.
“You’ve got this, Mrs. Followhill.” Via fist-pumps the air.
“Please, call me Mel.”
“Mel.”
“I believe in you, Mom,” Bailey cheers.
Melody turns to me. I pick up my slice of panini and take a small bite, looking around me. When all eyes are still on me, I say the only thing that pops in my head.
“Those energy bars were disgusting.”
At night, I toss and turn. Mel is trying to sleep next to me. Every time she reaches to rub my back and soothe me, I coil into myself. I keep wondering how we got here, and if there’s a way to go back to how we were the night I saw Penn at the snake pit. When Melody and I were civil. When we still communicated.
In the morning, Via wakes up with blisters on her feet the size of bricks.
“It’s all the walking.” She breaks into a heart-wrenching sob. “Daddy and Nana never took me anywhere in Mississippi. I guess I forgot what it feels like to walk any type of real distance.”
Make. It. Stop.
“We’ll go to Duane Reade.” Mel pacifies her, rubbing her back now. No objections here.
“We can buy you sneakers at the Nike store!” Bailey adds.
They fuss around her, assuring her that her mammoth pus balloons will be a thing of the past by nighttime.
“Just wait here,” Mel says, eyeing both of us carefully. “Bailey and I will be right back.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t send you to run my errands. I’m coming!” Via cries out dramatically.
Of course, she is. Spending a second with me would be the end of the world.
They dash out the door, and I notice Mel’s phone is still on the nightstand beside our bed. I initiate a conversation for the first time in months. It seems like a big deal to me because I’ve been so reluctant to talk to her. I’ve been avoiding it like the plague for what seems like months.
“Hey, Melody,” I holler at them as they run the length of the hallway toward the elevators, trying to catch one that’s sliding closed. “You—”
“Not now, Daria!” She shares a laugh with the girls, disappearing between the closing doors of the elevator.
Daria.
She is Melody, and I am Daria.
Mom and Lovebug are officially dead.
I turn around and exhale. I check my phone. No new messages. Penn forgot about me, and maybe it’s the way it should be. I handed him my icy heart only for him to thaw, heat, burn, and then stab. He doesn’t deserve me, and I don’t deserve to be saddled with the title homewrecker.
I drag my feet to the bathroom and start a bath before noticing Mel’s phone is lighting up with a new message.
Hello, Melody. Grace here. I was wondering if we could reschedule our meeting from tomorrow at 2pm to today at 2pm? Our HR director has to leave town this evening and won’t be able to go through the fine print with you.
I stare at the words. My hands are shaking, and each breath feels like I’m gulping lava into my lungs. All the anger and frustration I’ve been feeling for the past few months bubble inside my chest.
First, she took Penn in.
Then she decided to homeschool Bailey.
Then she took Via in.
Then Penn broke my heart.
And Via stole both her and Bailey from me.
I know I’m only here because Mel couldn’t not invite me. A sense of overwhelming vindictiveness washes over me. I try to tell myself not to do it when my fingers float of their own accord over her phone screen.
Actually, I appreciate the opportunity, but I decided we will not be a good fit after all.
I shoot the message across to Grace.
I regret it immediately, but confessing what I did is only going to make it worse. Mel already hates me. She doesn’t need any more excuses to want to disown me.
I am so very sorry to hear. Please let us know if that ever changes.
What have I done?
What have I done?
I delete the entire chain of messages and block and erase Grace from my mother’s contacts, then put the phone exactly where she left it before she went out with the girls.
Burying myself under the blankets of the queen-size bed, I don’t come up for air.
Behind every untrusting girl is a boy who made her that way
Mel looking frantically for her phone.
Mel searching for Grace’s number in it.
Mel sniffing, whispering shit, shit, shit as the pieces fall together. She is not getting this job. She is not fulfilling her dream.
