I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Fox Hollow.”
“You what? You took Maisie all the way back there?”
“Yeah, because she was standing in a hallway while you and Luke threw glass at each other.”
She groans. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything. I’m trying to keep your kid from watching another one of your implosions.”
“Fuck, Jude, you act like I meant for it to happen!”
“You never mean for anything to happen. That’s the problem.”
There’s a pause. I can hear her pacing—hard footsteps on tile, the creak of her kitchen chair as she sits. “Luke’s gone,” she says finally.
“Yeah, I figured.”
“He left last night. Took the truck. Said he needed space.”
My throat tightens. Same script, different year.
“And you needed to scream at him about the sonogram?”
Her breath catches. “You don’t get it.”
“No,” I say, sharper than I intend. “I do. You pick men who need fixing, you light matches, and you call me when everything’s on fire.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
Don’t talk to me like I’m some lost cause.”
I rub a hand over my jaw. “You’re my sister. You’re not a lost cause. But you keep making it damn hard to believe you want help.”
The silence that follows is long and heavy. I almost think she’s hung up.
Softly, finally, she asks, “How is she?”
I look out the window. Maisie’s bent over a half-finished snowman, Rufus trying to steal the carrot nose. She laughs, the sound carrying through the glass.
“She was quiet yesterday but… she’s okay now,” I say. “She’s laughing this morning.”
Amber exhales shakily. “Good.”
“She misses you.”
“I miss her too.”
“Then do something about it,” I snap before I can stop myself. “Get help. Talk to someone. Stop letting your life happen to you.”
Another pause. Then, quietly: “You think I don’t want to be better?”
“I think you don’t know how to stay better.”
She doesn’t argue that.
For a few seconds, all I hear is her breathing. “Maybe… maybe you should keep her for a bit.”
