Page 2 of What’s Left of Us

For Mom. For Phoebe.

After I dry my hair, I evaluate myself in the hanging mirror on my bedroom door. The dress is a tad too small, my makeup isn’t great, and my hair looks terrible. My stomach flips when I realize how ugly I look—and the fact this will be how Atlas sees me for the first time in years.

Good, I tell myself.

I haven’t spoken to Atlas in five years, and I have no intention of breaking that streak today.

Thirty-five minutes later, Mom and I pull up to the venue. It’s disgustingly beautiful here. A winery with expansive fields and lush greenery, all nestled atop a rocky hillside. Mom parks at the end of a depressingly long line of cars in the gravel lot, and I glare at the other arriving guests. I’m not surprised Phoebe’s having a huge wedding, but I hate how many people I already recognize.

“Thank goodness you didn’t need to be here early,” Mom says as she touches up her lipstick. For once, she and I are in agreement.

Phoebe said I didn’t need to be here for the walk-through. I think you can figure out how to walk down the aisle and stand next to me, she’d told me on the phone. I laughed, but I’m certain she knew it was fake. I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to attend her wedding at all, let alone be in it.

To be fair, I doubt she wants her ex-best friend’s little sister in her wedding either. This is clearly a move by her mother, a show of support for my mother. After all, we’d felt like one big family before…

Before before before befo⁠—

“All right, let’s do this!” Mom chirps, cutting through my spiral. She checks her makeup one more time and straightens her necklace. It’s a heart pendant with loose gems contained within it. An opal one for me. A sapphire for Nat. Years ago, there was a garnet stone too.

What, I’m not special enough to be in your heart? Dad had asked. He’d said it like a joke, but we all knew it wasn’t. Within days, Mom had ordered a little stone for him too.

After everything happened, she left that garnet in its cage for months. She only took it out when I demanded it, and I’ve felt rotten ever since. Not enough to apologize. I didn’t only inherit my father’s looks, after all.

When we exit the car, neither of us speaks. We walk through the blistering August heat in silence, and I study the stone building before us. It’s got fancy bay windows and thick walnut pillars and a few small balconies on the upper floors. This place is gorgeous, but the only thing I care about is whether it’s got air conditioning.

“Hey, Violet!” someone calls out as we ascend the front steps. It’s a guy from high school, I think, and he’s definitely judging my new hair. I can’t remember his name. He knows me though, because everyone knows the Preston family and our dirty laundry. I beg God—doesn’t even matter which one—to kill me. Right here, right now.

No such luck.

In good news, there’s definitely air conditioning. The temperature drops several degrees as we pass through the open, arched doorway, and my skin sings with relief. The building’s interior is simple but beautiful with an open layout and mid-century decor. Phoebe’s cousins linger near the entryway, and they’re quick to introduce themselves to Mom. As she chats with them, she flits around a massive round table, so overflowing with gifts she struggles to find a place for our present.

I wonder what “we” got Phoebe and her new husband.

Clusters of people linger nearby, and in the background, an elaborate dining area is set for the reception. Black tablecloths. White rose centerpieces. Pale blue dinnerware.

As Mom socializes, I linger pathetically in the background, slumping against the nearest wall like a stubborn toddler. People continue to filter in from outside, and I’m not surprised to see multiple of Atlas’s friends. As if it’s his freaking wedding, rather than his sister’s.

“Can you believe she’s getting married already?” Mom asks when she returns to my side. She loops her arm through mine and leads me deeper into the building. I can’t remember the last time we’ve touched, even casually like this. It takes all my effort not to squirm. “She’s only twenty-three. That’s so young.”

“Weren’t you, like, sixteen?”

“I was nineteen,” Mom says. Then, under her breath, “and look how that turned out.”

This time, I don’t reply.

“Oh good, you’re here!”

We both turn to the sound of Rachel Gleskie’s bubbly voice. She’s impressively normal-looking to the point it’s hard to settle on any one feature. Her straight brown hair is longer than the last time I saw her. She’s grinning broadly, and before I’ve fully registered her presence, she’s pulled us both into a crushing hug.

“Hi Rachel. I’m so sorry we’re late.”

I’m not, I want to say. Nat should be Phoebe’s maid of honor, not you.

“It’s not a worry at all,” Rachel says emphatically. She smiles as she pulls back, looking between us. Like everyone else, she’s judging my hair. Her attention keeps drifting to the shocking blue, but she’s not the type to say anything. “Come on, I’ll take you to the rest of the wedding party. Phoebe will be so happy to see you.”

I don’t even smile. A bitch move, honestly, but at least I don’t stick out my tongue like I want. If I’ve hurt Rachel’s feelings, she doesn’t give any indication. And luckily, Mom’s more than ready to fill the awkward silence. As Rachel leads us past the dining area, Mom asks endless questions.

Where did you end up going to college?