“I’m fine, really,” I say, but they both ignore me.
I drink and work on my breathing. Techniques Rose showed me on the road. In for four, hold. Out for eight, hold. She mentioned them offhand when we talked about the plane crash. My glass gets refilled without my asking.
“Thank you,” I say, and then, because of the way she’s looking at me, I add, “I’m sorry, Mom.”
She sits beside me and pushes the hair off my forehead. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
I take a sharp inhale. And then I do. I start not from the trip but from the first time I saw her—how fast it hit me, how hard I fell, and how I buried it. Re-contextualized it.
Then I turn to my father and tell him about the letter. The investors.
He read the letter, he tells me, was appalled at the time by what the woman—Rose, though she wasn’t named—was trying to do. He just didn’t know it was all a lie.
And when he realizes, when he learns the extent of his own involvement, he collapses into a chair beside me.
My mother is crying. “How could you both let this happen?”
Dad looks at her. Then, at the table. “I feel awful.”
“You should. We all should.” She wipes her face. “So. How do we fix it?”
Dad glances at me. I walk them through what I’ve been turning over for weeks. He shakes his head before I finish. “It’s not enough.”
So they add to it, and for the first time in weeks, I feel a little lighter. My chest feels a little looser.
I’m going to make this right. There’s no other option. Not where Rose is concerned. Even if she never takes me back, I have to make this right for her.
Chapter 26: Rose
There’s a knock on the door. My first thought is that Easton forgot his key, but then I remember he’s in St. Louis until tomorrow. I open the door without checking the peephole.
“What do you want?” I say as soon as I open it.
Pearl saunters past me, and it makes me want to scratch her eyes out.
“This place is nice,” she comments.
“I’ll be sure to pass along your compliments. What do you want, Pearl?”
She’s in a tight pencil skirt and a blouse that looks handwoven. Beautiful, as always. Her long blonde hair falls in a perfect sheet down her back. She turns to face me.
“I came to apologize.”
My eye twitches. I stick my finger in my ear. “Huh?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not repeating myself.”
“Right,” I say, swinging the door shut and heading to the kitchen. I pour from the open bottle of wine I’ve had going since noon. “You’ve never once apologized to me. Not even when Dad tried to make you. And you still haven’t, technically. So?”
“I’m sorry.”
I choke mid-sip. Cough, then take a longer pull to clear my throat. “What?”
“Ugh, you’re the worst.” She rolls her eyes and lets herself into the kitchen, opening cupboards until she finds a glass. She pours herself a drink. “I feel bad about what happened in Georgia.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Why would I say that if I didn’t?”
