Page 49
“Fine,” Mom says. She’s sitting up now, hunched over, with her head in her hands.
“I’ll be right back,” I say.
“I’ll check the locks on the doors and windows,” Sebastian says. He trails me into the kitchen. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I answer automatically, jerking the carafe out of the old coffee maker. I turn on the tap, water filling the brown-stained vessel. I swallow down the lump in my throat.
“We should call the police,” Sebastian says behind me.
“She’s not going to do that. She’ll put him before anyone else,” I reply, slamming the lid on the carafe shut.
“But he stole—”
“The police won’t care, anyway.” I turn to him and jump, not realizing he was so close. He’s frowning at me. “He stole what? A hundred dollars? A pair of second-hand cubic zirconium earrings she thought were diamonds? A fake gold necklace the last guy convinced her was real?”
The words are bitter as I spit them out. “Or maybe the ring the guy before got her that he swore he bought on Fifth Avenue but actually belonged to his wife.”
Behind me, the coffee maker sputters to life. Sebastian’s lips thin. “Why do you let her talk to you like that?”
I let out a hollow laugh. “Just be glad you don’t speak Spanish.”
Something flickers across his face.
“You don’t speak Spanish, do you?” I ask.
“Among other languages, yes.”
I groan and cover my face with my hands. Great.
“Isabella.” His hand closes around my shoulder. It’s a gentle, supportive grip. “Why do you let her talk to you like that?”
“Oh, that’s rich,” I snap, turning my anger on him. “Coming from someone who stood there and took it while his father flayed him alive in his own office.”
The words are out before I can stop them. Sebastian’s eyes narrow, but to my surprise, he doesn’t respond in anger. He just watches me until the coffeemaker beeps.
I fix the coffee the way Mom likes it, heavy on the sugar. Sebastian follows me back to the living room, and we both wait as she takes the mug in sullen silence, sips half of it, then shoves it back at me.
“Can you please help me take her to her bedroom?” I ask Sebastian.
“I can do it,” Mom barks, but as she pushes to her feet, she sways and almost falls back into the chair. Sebastian puts a steadying arm around her waist. For once, she doesn’t resist.
I help her into bed, placing a glass of water and Advil on the nightstand, as promised. She doesn't say goodnight, she just turns over and pulls the quilt up around her shoulders.
When I get back to the living room, Sebastian is studying the photos on the wall: my grandparents, me and my sisters, a shot of my mom as a teenager, grinning at the camera.
“I don’t know why she keeps that one,” I say, staring at the radiant young woman in the frame. “She says it’s the last time she was actually happy, before she met my father.”
“People who are that angry need a talisman,” Sebastian says quietly, “something to remind them why they’re angry, because they can’t live without the feeling anymore.”
I glance up at him, surprised by the depth of what he just said.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” I tell him, my gaze slipping to a photo of Nina and me holding baby Paloma. “It wasn't fair.”
He doesn’t say anything, he just nods his acceptance.
“Anyway,” I continue, “you should get going. Thanks for driving me. I’ll stay here until she wakes up or my sister arrives.”
“So she can say more of those terrible things to you?”
