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“Lydia, that’s inappropriate,” my mother scolds, with a hint of a I’m on my third glass of wine slur, which wouldn’t be an issue if she were a little closer to home than she is at present.

“I’m not saying she’ll do it,” Liddie says. “Though I probably would if I were her. Have you seen the guy?”

“Liddie!” my mother and I shout at the same time. My mother reaches over to cover Charlotte’s ears, as if she’s still a toddler who might have missed what’s already been said.

“Mom, I’m seventeen,” Charlotte protests. “I know what a blow job is.”

“Well, you shouldn’t,” my mother replies stonily, folding her arms across her chest. “Can we please try to make keep this conversation decent? Tell us about your day, Charlotte. Dr. Shriner says there was a party.”

Charlotte’s shoulders hitch and she doesn’t meet anyone’s eye as she runs her fingers through hair the same color as mine—golden brown, streaked with hints of caramel and strawberry blonde. “There was a cake,” she says, her voice flat. “After art. But it was chocolate.”

Charlotte hates chocolate. A minor thing, but my throat swells, unexpectedly. Holidays and birthdays were always a big deal in our house, especially for Charlotte, the baby of the family. She’s too young to already be learning the way life narrows down to nothing as you grow up.

My niece launches herself in front of the camera and conversation turns from Charlotte to Kaitlin—at age three, the new baby of the family. “I’d better go,” sighs Liddie. “I’ve got to put Kaitlin to bed.”

I suspect she’s holding me responsible for the hour and feel a pinch of irritation. “Can’t Alex do it?”

“She only wants me,” Liddie says.

“She’s spoiled,” my mother replies. “That’s why you need to have another kid.”

It’s the wrong thing to say to Liddie right now. “Wow, Mom,” she says. “Any other sage advice?”

I watch as Charlotte sinks further into her chair. Has this Zoom call made her feel less alone or more alone? She’s supposed to be going home at the end of August. I’d like to tell myself life will improve for her there, but as I listen to Liddie and my mother argue—the guest of honor forgotten completely—it’s hard to believe it’s true.

7

Hayes is already up and waiting when I arrive the next day. His eyes skim over me—lingering unhappily on my perfectly unobjectionable gray sheath and black heels.

“You’ll need to come with me this morning,” he says, his misery obvious.

I set the coffee down with an unhappy thud. “On house calls?”

I laid awake for hours last night, worrying about Charlotte. Time with him is the last thing I need today.

He points at the first name on the schedule. “That star right there means I need an assistant. Jonathan booked them back-to-back.”

“Unless you’d like me to use the ample medical knowledge I’ve gleaned from watching Grey’s Anatomy,” I reply, leaning against the counter, “I’m not sure how I’d be useful.”

“It goes without saying that you won’t be especially useful,” he replies, his mouth twisting, “but I still need you there. Let’s go.”

He starts heading out. Apparently, I’m to follow like a dog—which I do, grabbing my bag as I race to catch up.

He holds the door of his BMW open for me, a surprising bit of chivalry for a man who can’t even bother to tell me goodbye in the morning. He gets into the driver’s seat and glances at me. “You might want to fix your dress,” he says, his tone half growl, half disgust. His gaze flickers to my legs and his jaw sets.

“Is it suddenly 1800?” I ask, twisting as I fasten the seat belt. “Will my reputation be destroyed because you caught a glimpse of my porcelain thighs?”

“You really have to argue about everything, don’t you?” he asks. He hits the accelerator, taking off at a speed I generally associate with roller coasters and space shuttle launches.

“Yes,” I reply. “And if you crash at this speed, you will ruin your pretty face. Good luck surviving in the real world without your looks.”

He shrugs. “I’ll still have lots of money, which matters far more to women.”

Nice attitude, I think, but I no longer have the energy to bicker with him. Instead, I stare out the window, hoping the view will improve my mood. It usually does. Though there have been times when I’ve missed things about home—feeling safe when I walk down a street at night, the change of seasons—southern California makes me happy in a way Kansas never did. Ocean, mountains, perfect weather. Even here in the city, there are sprightly pineapple palms lining the boulevard, and every house we pass is dotted with color: bougainvillea or the spectacular haze of purple jacaranda. I feel whole again, looking at it, so wouldn’t Charlotte as well? Wouldn’t she be far better off here with the views and beach and endless sunshine than she would back home, subject to my mother’s haphazard care?

If she weren’t going into her senior year of high school, I’d seriously consider it. I still can’t believe my mother couldn’t even stay sober for Charlotte’s birthday. I know my father’s death hit her hard, but surely, she realizes it’s time to put on her big-girl pants for my sister’s sake?

“You’re surprisingly quiet,” Hayes says. I’d almost forgotten he was here, which was nice while it lasted. “It’s been at least ten minutes since you’ve nagged me or delivered unsolicited advice.”