“I think we should put a pin in . . .this, for now,” she whispers, and I nod, kissing her shoulder.
“You’re right.”
“I just have a lot going on right now. I can’t . . .”
“I know, angel, I know.” She lets out a deep sigh, and I do too. We stay like that for a couple more seconds, catching our breaths, until I eventually step back from her. “Should we finish up our work?”
She clears her throat, her eyes darting to the floor. “I think I’m going to head home, actually.”
I nod, trying not to let it show how much that stings. Still, a tiny piece of me breaks when I watch her walk out the door.
CHAPTER NINETEEN: SCARLETT
Christmases with the Voss family are always special.
Something in the house changes when all the kids are home for the holidays. My parents might act like they don’t miss Alex, but whenever he’s back they don’t leave his side. They’re always hovering over him like he’s a kid again, ruffling his hair and asking him how work is going, like he isn’t in his early thirties.
I like having my big brother around too. He keeps the others in order, so they don’t bug me as much. And, not that it matters atall, but Alex always buys the best presents. Even though we see him less, he still knows all of us inside out. He knows exactly the right thing to get each of us, and it always amazes me how he manages to get us just what we need. This year, he got me a new sketchbook and pencils, as well as a new travel-sized watercolor kit.
He looks like the family Santa Claus as he lugs a huge bag ofmorepresents up the stairs as if we didn’t already open the bulk of his gifts this morning. He’s even got a red hat on to match, the fluffy white pom-pom at the end bouncing against his back. Despite the Santa hat and the red pajamas, he looks exactly like my dad when he was younger. Tanned skin, dark curly hair cut short, a mustache that leads into a beard that he’s cleaned up for the holidays.
I stop at the bottom of the spiral staircase, almost sliding across the marble floor in my fluffy socks and the matching plaid pajama set that we’re all wearing. I wince as I watch Alex bang the bag of gifts against the stair rail with each step he takes.
“Do you need any help with that?” I ask, leaning against the bottom banister.
Alex huffs out a hearty laugh, turning to see me. “No, I’m good, sis.”
“Are you sure?”
He nods, and as I turn to walk away, he calls me again. “Actually, come up here, I wanna talk to you.”
“Okay . . .” I make my way up the stairs and by the time I get to the top he’s managed to place the bag on the landing, pushed up against one wall. I take a seat beside him on the top step, bumping my shoulder into his side. “What’s up?”
He bumps me back. “What’s up withyou? You don’t text anymore.”
“I do text. Ilovetexting. I text you all the time.”
He snorts. “Yeah, right, well you don’t text enough.” I don’t argue with that. I know I could probably text him more, but with the time difference, he usually doesn’t respond until the next day anyway. Sometimes I forget there was a time when my siblings and I were all under the same roof. I miss that. Alex’s dimple pops out when he tilts his head toward me and bumps my shoulder again. “You’ve been quiet since breakfast. That’s not like you.” I shrug. “Any guys I need to beat up?”
I almost choke, clearing my throat as I look back at him. “No, no, absolutely not.”
“Then what’s up?”
I draw a pattern on my knee, following the lines on my pajamas. “Did the boys not tell you?” I ask, whispering in case my parents are nearby. All work-talk is strictly prohibited at Christmas. Alex’s eyebrows knit together, and I add in an even quieter voice, “The list.”
Realization dawns on him and he leans back slightly. “Ah. Right.”
“Do you realize how stupid it is? Thatallof us have to do it just to get a job at the company we’re born into.”
He chuckles deeply, shaking his head. “It’s tradition.”
“It’s ridiculous,” I mutter. “It’s been four months, and I’ve still got to find time to get myself on the front page of a newspaper.”
“What’s the rush? You know there’s no time limit on it, right?”
“I know, but I just . . . I really want this. I don’t want them to forget about me.”
“Forget about you? You’re their daughter, Scar,” Alex says softly, knocking his knee against mine.
