So it's exactly as I suspected. She's ashamed of the designs. I tenderly brush a strand of hair from her forehead and kiss her right there. "Well, it looks pretty professional to me."
"In an hour, I have to be back atTouch av lyx." She taps her wristwatch. "Come on, let's eat together."
I understand. She doesn't want to talk about it, and I respect that. Maybe I'll have more luck with my other topic. "Listen..."
She turns away and places the design folder in the drawer. "Yes?"
How do I tell her? It's best to be straightforward so as not to lie to her more than I already do. "I know where your mother is," I say and close the gap between us.
Sky, who was in the process of closing the drawer, stops mid-motion.
Carefully, I place my fingers on hers and push the drawer closed. "She's in..."
"Stop." A jolt runs through her body. "I don't want to know."
The drawer closes, and the design folder disappears from my view. "Why not?" I ask cautiously.
Her hands slip away from mine. "That's just the way it is." She turns around and strides into the kitchen.
I follow her, noting the tension in her shoulders. What is she so afraid of? "I think you should talk to her," I say, convinced of that. "About what happened after New York. And about the divorce."
Sky merely suspects that her parents divorced because of her mistake. This thought burdens her, yet perhaps unjustly so. "What if it wasn't your fault at all? Why cling to something you've pieced together yourself when there's another possibility?"
Sky yanks open the refrigerator and grabs the butter, then lifts the lid of the bread box so abruptly that the hinges groan.
"What's the problem, Sky?" I won't let it go, not now. I can sense that she doesn’t want this conversation.
With a shaky hand, she retrieves a knife from the utensil drawer. "She won't want to see me."
I would love to stop her and force her to finally look at me. But she seems so trapped in her fear that I don't dare. "Why not?"
"She never wanted to." She quickly scrapes butter from the dish and spreads it on the bread so forcefully that it breaks. "I've been invisible to her my whole life."
"There must be a reason for that. Have you ever asked her?" I counter, and she shakes her head with tightly pressed lips. "I understand that it's not easy, but..."
Suddenly, all her tension leaves her body. "Only the truth matters?" she whispers tonelessly, and a wave of nausea washes over me.
Only the truth matters. Those are my damn words that I no longer adhere to myself. I will never stop hating myself for it. Right now, I'd like to flog myself to rid myself of this guilt.
I can't reply; I can't do it. So I just nod.
"It worked with Lil," she says. She sinks against the kitchen counter and looks at the torn sandwich. For seconds, she says nothing. Her eyes fill with tears, which she blinks away with great effort.
"It did," I say to encourage her, as I can see how much she's struggling with herself.
"What if I can't handle my mother's truth?" she asks in a shaky voice.
I take a step toward her, take the knife out of her hand, and hug her as tightly as I can.
"No matter what happens, I'm here for you," I utter helplessly under the weight of the prison I've built for myself.
From her sad eyes, she looks at me as if searching for something in my expression. Then very slowly, she begins to nod.
