Page 18 of No Headlines Please

Funny. Mom made it sound like the photo was taken in Miami. It wasn't. It was taken on Lake Michigan three summers ago by yours truly when Tessa had stopped by for a weekend visit.

My heart clenched at the memory. The visit had ended in a big, stupid argument when I'd gotten miffed about Tessa sharing some of my writing samples with Mom – as if I didn't get enough mockery already.

One thing had led to another. Tessa got defensive. I got offensive. And in the end, neither of us was smiling at the beach.

Tessa had left five hours earlier than planned, and I'd spent those hours pounding at my keyboard like it owed me money.

And now she was in Miami.

But for how long?

Mom's post was only a few days old, so that was good, right? Sure, the photo wasn't quite new, but Mom wouldn't have posted the update if she hadn't talked to Tessa recently.

I scrolled further and saw several more posts about Tessa before I spotted one about me.

At the sight of it, I literally groaned. It was a shot of me at the kitchen table, hunched behind my laptop with a startled, deer-in-headlights expression that made me look wildly suspicious, like I'd been caught surfing monster porn.

The photo was at least two years old, because that's how much time had passed since my last visit to my parents' place.

It wasn't only my expression that was unflattering. It was my clothing too – an ancient gray sleep shirt with a stretched-out collar and frayed sleeves.

But in my defense, the time was long past midnight, and I'd been working – not that Mom would ever believe it.

Regardless, it was the caption that really twisted the knife. "That face you make when you claim you're writing a novel. Fiction comes in all forms, I guess. But we can't all be go-getters."

My mouth tightened. Hah! Little did she know I'd actually written – and yes, published – nine novels, thank you very much.

But I'd be a fool to let her read them.

My books weren't the kind you showcased on the family coffee table.

And besides, I was the family laughingstock already.

Plus, people used pen names for a reason.

I scrolled a little longer and stopped when I saw an old photo of me and Tessa together as kids, wearing identical yellow sundresses. She looked fabulous. I was covered in mud.

And yet, both of us looked happy – Tessa with her usual sunny smile, and me looking just a little wild as I grinned from ear to ear. Apparently, falling into the creek bed while lunging for a glitter-covered egg hadn't dampened my enthusiasm one bit.

But Mom?

She'd been decidedly less enthused.

But in my defense, I'd been only five. By now, it had been twenty years since I'd found myself covered in mud.

Even so, the way my mom talked, you'd think I mud-wrestled for a living. She posted that stupid photo every Easter, adding a new caption to the mix.

This year's caption said, "One daughter found eggs. The other found the creek. Crazy how trends continue. Happy Easter, everyone!"

My lips tightened. In reality, I'd found just as many eggs as Tessa, maybe even more. And honestly, the mud disaster wasn't my fault.

I mean, seriously, who hides a glittery egg on the edge of a slippery creek bank?

It hadn't been me. So, why was I being ridiculed years later?

My gaze drifted to the corner of the screen, and I nearly choked when I saw the time.

Oh, crap.