“No,” I say quietly. “She’s not.”
“You want her in Austin.”
“More than anything.”
“But you don’t think she’d come if you asked.”
I nod.
“She probably wouldn’t,” Johanna says. “But she might ifIdid.”
“Joey...”
“She loves you,” she says simply. “And yeah, you’re being an idiot right now—but she still loves you. She showed up for you. For all of us. It’s time someone showed up for her.” She pulls out her phone and walks toward the door.
“I’m calling her,” she says over her shoulder. “You can thank me later.”
Chapter forty-one
"Bleed" - The Kid Laroi
Mia
The couch at Makenna’s house is way too white.
Everything is perfectly styled—neutral tones, throw pillows for a pop of color, scented candles that actually match what season it is. It’s like living inside a Pinterest board. I didn’t expect anything less.
I haven’t even taken my shoes off. I don’t dare pour myself a glass of wine. I don’t want to mess anything up more than I already have by simply existing in the overly clean space.
Makenna is out at a partner’s dinner for her firm tonight, but had said to make myself at home—as much as I can in her museum-like living room. Macy had offered to come over, but I had told her I’d be okay for one night without a babysitter. They’d barely left me alone since they found out Grayson had left, and I needed a minute to fall apart without an audience.
I semi-settle onto the couch and pull a throw blanket over my legs. My phone sits next to me, screen dark. Besides the nearly obsessive calls from my sisters and Rylee, the only other person I’ve heard from since I left is Jake. I hadn’t answered, but according to his voicemail, he’d called to tell me that it’s official—Catastrophically Charismatic is going to be signed by a major label. There’s a show to announce the signing in Austin in a few days, and there will be a plane ticket waiting for me at the airport of my choice. All I have to do is call and tell him which one.
I don’t know what to do with that. It’s nice of Jake to invite me, but he isn’t the person I want the invitation from.
I stare at the ceiling, then at my phone, then at the bottle of wine on the bar cart. I still don’t move.
After a few more minutes of silence, I pull up the keypad and dial the number I’ve known by heart since I got my first phone.
She answers on the third ring.
“Mia?”
“Hey, Mom.”
Her voice shifts, warmer now. “Hi, darling. Is everything okay?”
“No,” I say honestly. “Not really.”
I hear the soft rustle of fabric, like she’s sitting down, bracing for impact.
“Did you go to Angela Harris’ funeral?”
She’s quiet for a second too long. “I did.”
My stomach twists. It isn’t that far-fetched to think she would’ve gone. She’d known Angela longer than my sisters and I have been alive.
“You didn’t tell me you were going.”
