Page 28 of Gilt

“He didn’t steal the booty.” I can’t help but laugh at the indignation on her face. Now I remembered why I called her, because now that I’ve spilled my guts and we’ve faced the worst possible scenario, the whole situation is a lot less nightmarish. Time to return the favor. “What about you? Meet any prospective sugar daddies last night?”

“Oh, look at the time.” She holds up her bare wrist. “I have to get you home.”

“You are avoiding the question,” I accuse.

“You hate hearing about my papa bears.”

“Oh, that is gross!” I clutch my throat, pretending to gag.

“My point is made. I have to meet mom for dinner soon. Want to join us?”

I shake my head, recalling my vow to never leave the house again. “I think I’m going to stay home tonight. Going out with you gets me in trouble.”

“Marion would never allow us to misbehave,” Josie reminds me as I dump the remains of my ice cream cone in the trash. “That’s why I’m glad she works nights.” She winks as she unlocks her car.

“I think I just want to be alone. I know that sounds super pathetic,” I add before she can state the obvious. “I need to think about stuff.”

Like packing up and heading to Palm Springs. Josie doesn’t argue with me. A few minutes later, she drops me off at home. Dad’s car is still gone, and the blinds are only half opened since I got interrupted earlier. It feels like my whole day has been spent coming back to an empty house, and as much as I want to stew, I feel lonely looking at how quiet it is. Maybe being with mom this summer wouldn’t be so bad.

The window rolls down behind me. “Call if you need me. I could be convinced to stay in tonight.”

“Promise.”

Inside, I stare at the fridge for a long time before I slam it shut. Nothing sounds good. The television binge I’d been planning seems a little less thrilling now that I’ve been pulled into my very own drama.

I spot the bottle I abandoned on the couch. I pick it up and deliver it successfully to the trash. The pile of bills from earlier gloat from the counter. Going to stay with mom might protect me from getting dragged into this any further, but it will also leave dad to his own devices. I pick one up and tear it along the envelope seam. Drawing out the statement, I nearly fall over. Three months behind on our electric bill. That means any minute, the lights could go out. There’s only one thing to do.

An hour later, I’ve sweet-talked the utility company into letting me pay one installment. I hang up the phone and any thoughts I had of leaving Belle Mère along with it. I don’t want to be stuck taking care of my dad forever, but I also don’t want to lose my house.

Falling into an old routine seems like the most mind-numbing option, so I gather laundry. But even after listening to the whir and rumble of the machines, I can’t silence the inner debate bouncing around in my head.

On my way to my room with a basket full of folded clothes, I pass the door that’s remained closed since last summer. This was Becca’s house, too. With each day that passes, I forget her a little more. Stupid things like how her laugh sounded or the face she made when she was angry. All those tiny bits of a person that add up to a whole. I’m losing her piece by piece. I can’t lose this house or her room. I need it if it’s going to keep her memory alive. If Becca was here, she would know what to do, and that’s exactly what I needed to remember. Heading to my room, I strip off the sundress I wore for my mother and find a comfy pair of shorts and a tank top. Then I pull my hair into a ponytail and throw on my running shoes. I need to clear my head. I need to run. Not away from here but to someone. It’s easy to forget that there’s one other person I can always talk to—as long as I’m okay with her not responding.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I chose the Belle Mère graveyard because it was close to home. Dad wanted to be able to visit. But he visits as often as mom does. If I hadn’t worried about it, there wouldn’t even be a headstone marking her grave. Maybe it would be easier if I could pretend she was just off at school or if I could drink away her memory, but I’d been cursed and blessed to spend the last few moments with her before she died. The run to the cemetery is boring, but it gives me time to clear my head. I run faster until my muscles burn, and I’m drenched in sweat. I know I can’t outrun what’s happening, but that doesn’t stop me from trying. By the time I reach the graveyard, the shade trees and green lawn are a welcome site. It’s a bit strange to spend so much time and energy tending to the final resting place of the dead. In the desert, most of us don’t get to look at green grass while we’re alive. It’s not comforting to think I’ll be buried under it someday.

I jog along the path, reading names and dates. Nearly everyone here lived a nice, long life. They had decades on Becca. She didn’t even get eighteen years. We buried her under a fledgling willow tree. A strange choice for Nevada, but rules don’t seem to apply in graveyards. Reputations don’t matter. Everyone here is beloved and missed and dear. Drought regulations don’t exist, or maybe the unnaturally green grass has evolved to soak up the tears of its visitors.

Becca’s face greets me when I reach her site. Mom considered having her headstone laser-engraved with her image tacky, but I’d fought her on it. Her grave didn’t need to suit anyone’s taste but mine. It had been a good call. Over the last year, her photos began to vanish as her Facebook page was deleted and her Instagram stopped updating. Then they disappeared from our house, leaving only faded patches where they had hung for years. But it’s even harder to think about all the photos she won’t get to take.

Plopping down in front of the headstone, I give her a small grin. Her face beams back at me, locked in a happy moment from earlier that summer. It’s one of the last pictures I have of her. My memory fills in the rest of the picture. Becca posing in front of a tall cactus, her red hair billowing behind her. She’ll always look like this to me: young, happy. She’ll never age, while I’ve gotten older in the last twenty-four hours. I blink back tears. “Hey, sis, have I got a story to tell you.”

With Becca, I leave nothing out. I tell her about sneaking around Nathaniel’s office and meeting Jameson. I tell her that it seems impossible to have fallen in love with him a little bit in one night. I tell her that makes me feel stupid. Then I tell her it was all a lie. I ask her if I should go to Mom’s, and I tell her about Dad and his drinking. I know it’s impossible, but I can’t help but hope that she’ll speak up and offer me some insight. Although it would probably scare me to death.

I sit for a little while, soaking up how good it feels just to get it all off my chest, even though the only response is the wind in the willow branches. “I’ve never really thought much about what happens after we die, but I like the idea that you’re listening somewhere. There’s no way you landed the angel gig. It’ll take you centuries before you work off all the trouble you made here.”

As twilight falls in dusky hues over the cemetery, I stand up.

“I miss you, Becca,” I whisper. I should have brought her flowers, but I think she’d be okay just knowing that I brought her love. If I hurry, I’ll be home before dark, but as I turn, I nearly jump out of my skin. Jameson’s leaning against a tree. He’s changed since I saw him last. He hasn’t shaved, but his hair is combed into neat chaos. In the dusky light, it’s darker than I remember. His jeans hug his narrow hips but not as tightly as his shirt clings to his muscular torso. My thoughts flash to what he looks like out of his clothes, and I blush. Striding up to him, I fold my arms over my chest and glare.

“How long have you been standing there?” I demand. Then a more important question occurs to me. “Did you follow me?”

“A little full of ourselves, Duchess.” He shifts ever so slightly, and I find myself doing the same.

Dammit, he is not who you thought he was, I remind myself.

“Don’t call me that,” I warn him. Did he think we would just pick up where we left off? That ship sailed when I woke up alone.