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“I know,” she said.
I stared at her.
“I believed you at first,” she said. “It was over, and you seemed to move on. You tried acting school, and you flunked out, but you brushed it off. I didn’t think that meant anything, because I flunked out of art school at the same time.”
I bit my lip. Our mother, an actress who had starred in a successful sitcom in the late eighties and early nineties, had put together some of her residuals and sent us both to school—me for acting, Olivia for art. We’d both failed. Now, aft
er years as a graphic designer, Olivia had found her way back to art, working at a gallery and doing her own art in her spare time. But acting wasn’t my passion; I’d thought I’d be good at it, because I was pretty and outgoing, and it had seemed like something to do. Neither was a good enough reason to pursue such a hard career.
“When you got the stripping job,” Olivia continued, “I started to wonder. You seemed… tough. Hard. But we’d been apart for a few years by then. I thought maybe that was just how you were. The pregnancy was so long ago, and you never mentioned it, never mentioned the father again. You didn’t seem to be heartbroken over him.”
“Not him,” I said. “I was never heartbroken over him.”
She looked at me. “But the experience was painful.”
I stared unseeing at the busy, crowded restaurant behind her shoulder for a minute, and then I said, “Stripping was my way of making sure nothing ever hurt me again.”
“Oh,” she said. She looked upset. “I let you down as a sister, didn’t I? You could have talked to me anytime. I would have listened.”
I reached out and put my hand on hers. “You didn’t let me down. I didn’t want to talk. I couldn’t even admit to myself that there was anything to talk about.”
We were quiet for a minute, both of us absorbing that. Then she said, “And now?”
“I feel better,” I told her honestly. “Max made me realize what I’ve been doing.” He’d had to spank it out of me, but it was still true. “I don’t know how he knew myself better than I did, but he did.”
“And he helped you get out of the business, even if he had to buy a building to do it,” Olivia said. “You didn’t answer my question. Do you think you two are serious?”
I opened my mouth to answer, then closed it again. Opened it, then closed it, like an idiot. I didn’t know the answer. It hadn’t been very long; I’d never been serious about anyone before; I didn’t know how he felt about me, not really. But at the same time, I hadn’t been lying when I’d told him that I didn’t like the idea of another woman touching him. If any woman even looked at Max sideways, I’d probably go Dynasty on her. But did that mean I was serious, or just a possessive bitch?
Because I could totally see myself as a possessive bitch.
“You’re thinking about it,” Olivia said. “Admit it.”
This was getting too serious, so I said, “I’m thinking about fucking him. That’s different.”
But my sister, damn her, wasn’t fooled. She just smiled and picked up an empanada. “You’re so full of shit,” she said. “Eat your lunch.”
I texted Max as I left the restaurant. What are you doing?
Talking to my therapist, he texted back.
Jesus. Max was texting during a therapy session? I’d never been in therapy, but I had to guess that was frowned on. Stop it, I wrote. Talk to you later.
There was a pause. We’re not in a session, Max wrote. Just talking.
That made me frown as I got in my car. He was just… hanging out with his psychiatrist? That didn’t sound normal, either. His psychiatrist was a man—I remembered that from the conversations we’d had during the bouts of exhaustion in our sex marathon. But Max hadn’t mentioned they had a social relationship.
I decided I’d ask him about it later, since he was in the middle of the conversation, whatever it was.
I drove home, my mind wandering as I drove, thinking about throwing out some of my stripper clothes and making room in my closet. Thinking about calling my mother. Thinking about taking college courses—what kind of courses could I take? The array of choices was overwhelming. I didn’t want anything to do with acting or performing, but I liked being with people. Maybe sales, or marketing, or PR. Or event planning. They had courses in that, right?
I was still deep in thought as I pulled into the underground parking lot beneath my apartment building. It was afternoon on a weekday, and the underground lot was deserted, filled with cars but no people. I parked in my designated spot and got out, keys in hand, when I caught something from the corner of my eye. Someone coming my way on foot.
I turned to see who it was.
And that was when everything fell to pieces.
Chapter 22
