Page 3 of Sincerely, Mr. Braden

The gash is fairly deep and bloody enough to send chills through me. I quickly rewrap it. “We’re going to the hospital.”

He glares at me. “Doctors just glue you back together and send a bill. Waste of time and money.”

I cross my arms, holding his stare. “Either you get in the car, or I’ll call nine-one-one and let them take you.”

His eyes narrow, but before he can say more, I pull out my phone. We’ve been through this a time or two. He does not like when I call the ambulance.

“Fine,” he relents angrily.

“Good.” I head for the car, knowing that if I slow down to grab the groceries, he’ll change his mind. Then I hear the telltale sounds of grocery bags and spin around. He’s carrying them all toward the house, blood dripping down his arm. “Dad!” I go after him, but he’s already opening the door to the house. “I swear you have a death wish.”

“If I croak tomorrow, at least I’ll have had some fun. You should take a lesson from me.”

Keeping him alive is going to be the death of me.

“I can’t go, Bec,” I say, wearing a path in my bedroom floor while my sister picks out outfits and packs my suitcase. She’s pushy like that. “If I hadn’t taken him to the hospital, who knows what kind of infection he would have gotten.”

“Dad will be fine. But you won’t if you stick around. I’ll make your life hell.”

I glower at her. “Do you not remember when he had pneumonia and refused to see the doctor until he collapsed? Or when he decided he could move that big-ass boulder from the backyard and wrenched his back for weeks? How about when he went mountain biking with that Wilderness Hogs group and ended up with bruised ribs and two broken fingers?”

When she doesn’t respond, I say, “Did you forget all of that? Or the time he didn’t take his MS meds for two months because he felt fine, and when he had a flare-up, he also insisted he was fine and ended up in the hospital?” Our father takes daily pills to control his symptoms and gives himself a monthly injection to try to keep the disease from progressing. Too worked up to wait for her to respond, I blurt out, “You should go on this trip. I’ll stay here and look after Dad, and everything will be fine.”

“Not happening, sis.” Becca plucks a bikini from my drawer and struts over to the bed in her sixties minidress and white go-go boots. “One hot bikini. Check.” She tosses it into my suitcase and then heads over to my dresser and glances in the mirror.

With the exception of having an impeccable work ethic, Becca is everything I’m not. She is the Katy Perry of Port Hudson, minus the singing talent and dark hair. A brazen, voluptuous blonde with a penchant for dressing outlandishly and a flair for drama and risk, like our father, Becca has a chip on her shoulder bigger than Manhattan. In contrast, I’m a slim, quietly confident brunette who gets enough drama from our father’s antics, and I’d rather eat dirt than argue about anything.

Becca slides a lipstick case out of her dress pocket and paints her lips cherry red. “I’ve got too much going on this weekend. Besides, you haven’t gone anywhere in forever.”

“See?” I snap. “You don’t even have time to watch him.”

“Of course I do. I told you I’d check in on him, and I will. He’s my top priority.” She spins around, pointing the lipstick at me. “Eleanor Taylor Nunnally,” she says in her best, and rarely used, big-sister voice.

I glower at her for using the name she knows I can’t stand. I was Nori Nunnally until my mother left, when I became Taylor in an effort to erase the memories of the woman who kicked my world out from under me.

“You’re going on this trip,” Becca insists, “and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

I sink down to the edge of my bed with a sigh, watching her blot her lips like a pro.

She pockets her lipstick, smiles like she didn’t just ream me, and says, “What do you think?”

“I think you should go on this trip,” I say flatly.

“Tay.” She plants her hands on her hips. “You’ve been given four days in a mansion on the beach, and you’re acting like it’s a prison sentence. I know that little girl who dreamed of traveling is still in there somewhere.”

I scoff. That girl hasn’t been around since Mom left.

“Come on, Taylor. If Dad weren’t in the picture, would you want to go?”

How many times have I been so stressed out, I fantasized about disappearing? Dropping everything and taking off? The thought brings a wave of guilt so powerful, it nearly knocks me sideways. I am not my mother.

“Yes,” I admit softly. “Sort of.”

Becca’s brows knit. “Are you nervous about traveling alone?”

I shrug, knowing she doesn’t need an answer.

“It’s only scary because you never go anywhere, but you’re Taylor Mitchell. You keep billionaires organized, and you’re great with people. There’s nothing you can’t do. Who cares if you don’t know anyone? You’ll have sun on your face and sand between your toes, and you can meet people. Walk through town, explore the area. You know you’d love it. You can go Jet Skiing or snorkeling or paddleboarding. You just have to get out of your own way. It’ll be an adventure, and if anyone deserves a vacation like this, it’s you.”