“That is not true. I have stayed out of your way. I’ve stayed out of hers. But she doesn’t make it easy, and—”
“So, you’re a victim now?”
“That’s not—” Her face goes red. “I’m not asking you to take sides. I’m just saying she makes things up, and whatever she’stold you about me—we had a nice time tonight, didn’t we? I just thought maybe we could—”
“What is this?” I take a step toward her. “We flirt over waffles, and suddenly I’m your confidant? Are you jealous she has friends in her corner? That she hasme?” Why else would Rose care what I think about her? This is some kind of game. She’s working an angle.
“God, you’re so fucking arrogant. No. I’m just trying to make peace.”
“How is calling your sister, one of my best friends, a liar and a narcissist, making peace?”
“You aren’t listening to me. And you said those words, not me.”
I scoff and look up at the sky. Rose gets under my skin just by existing, and for a second there, I started to wonder if I’ve had her wrong this whole time.
I admit, “Look, Pearl probably exaggerates. Most people do. But there’s a difference between stretching the truth and making up a decade of shit about their sister. She’s told me a lot of things about you, but one thing I know is that Pearl isn’t a liar.”
Rose’s eyes blaze with fire, face contorting in anger.
“What did Pearl lie about?” I ask, trying to give her the benefit of the doubt.
“How am I supposed to know?”
Jesus fucking Christ. I scrub a hand over my face. “You live with Easton now, right? Her ex? Are you fucking him?”
“That’s none of your—I mean, yes, I live with him, but I’m not—”
I hold up my hand. The whole diner thing was a performance. A setup. She knew exactly what she was doing, and I sat there like an idiot and ate it up. She probably saw Pearl’s text and saw an opportunity to get between us. This is what she does, Pearl’s warned me about it a hundred times.
“Do you know how many foundations Pearl runs? How many charities she’s involved in? Do you have any idea how selfless your sister is?” Rose’s expression turns hard, but I keep going. “And what do you do all day with your time? You don’t have a job, you just freeload off everyone around you. Pearl is a good person. She shows up for people. She calls, she remembers things, she makes plans and keeps them. You are nothalfthe woman Pearl is.” I look Rose over slowly. The way she goes from hard and angry to something a little smaller. Shoulders rounding in, head slumping slightly. “I’m glad you had a nice time over waffles. Must be exhausting performing like that. But at the end of the night, you and I aren’t friends. You’re just a sad, bitter woman who’s showing up alone and late to your father’s wedding—the only family you have left not even wanting you there.”
I regret it the second those words leave my mouth. I watch the fight go out of her—the blaze behind her eyes dimming, eyes watering—not from exhaustion this time, but from hurt.
She opens her door and slams it shut behind her.
So much for making peace.
Chapter 5: Rose
Idig the arnica balm out of my bag and dab it carefully on my bruise—a blend I made myself with beeswax and calendula and a few other things, good for bruising, aches and pains. It smells strongly medicinal, which I’ve always found comforting, though I know it’s not for everyone. My little herbal kit goes everywhere with me. Teas, tinctures, herbs, supplements.
Logan would probably have something to say about herbal medicine—he’s a surgeon, and my dad’s a small-town GP, and in my experience, the more letters after your name, the less patience you have for anything you can’t bill through insurance.
I zip everything back up and try some stretching. Three Sun Salutations in, the pounding starts—dull at first, then insistent, right behind my eyes. Yoga usually helps with my stress. Not today. I finish packing and check out of my room early, deciding to take the rest of the week off from any movement.
My preferred options for getting out of here are hitchhiking or taking up horseback riding, but since neither will get me to the wedding on time—and both might get me killed—I’m stuck with Logan.
Yesterday, the fact that he would rather board another plane, aftereverything, than spend more time in a car with me—andthat was before our argument last night—had stung more than I wanted to admit. Today, I’d have paid for his ticket myself.
One more hour on the road of having to deal with his asshole-ness. Ninety minutes tops. I can handle that.
As I check out, Maybelle tells me her twin sister, Marielle, opens the diner at seven, so I hand in my key and walk over. I don’t tell Logan where I’m going, half hoping he’ll just leave me.
I get comfortable in the booth and pull out a tea bag I made myself—feverfew, peppermint, ginger, good for inflammation and headaches. I’m sipping it alongside a coffee when a brand-new Audi pulls into the lot, and my shoulders drop. Logan sits for a moment before cutting the engine, like he’s steeling himself. I know the feeling.
Seeing him is always the same. I get distracted by his broad shoulders, big hands, strong, cut features. Kissable lips. The expression he always wears would be insufferable on anyone else, but on him, it just makes me feel like he’s capable. Self-assured. And it makes everything inside me go very tense.
After what he said to me last night, the last thing I need is for him to still affect me like this.
