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I press away from the door and sit on the barstool beside her, for some dumb reason wanting to offer comfort.
“Don’t even, princess. You think we’re going to do some sisterly bonding over broken hearts? I don’t have a heart, which I’d think you’d have figured out by now.”
Okay, then. I dart my eyes to Amber. She’s cut the frittata into eight perfect pie slices, her focus on food rather than our screwed-up family. It’s not pity I feel. It’s care. For the first time in our lives Dixie’s opened up with something personal, and it gives me hope.
“Did you really leave without saying good-bye?” I ask, reaching for a piece of the frittata.
“I might have put a boot through his favorite guitar on my way out, but yeah, pretty much.” She grabs some of the egg-and-veggie dish with a smile on her face. “I certainly can’t explain how his picture and the address of the bar ended up on a site called Knobgobbler, and I have no clue who posted her number on Skanky Bitches.”
Amber chokes.
“Easy, girl,” Dixie says. “Am I too much for your delicate ears? Better get used to it.”
“There’s water bottles in the fridge,” I say.
She grabs one, takes a big sip, then clears her throat but doesn’t say anything. She’s always been the quietest of us, but she seems more distant than normal, probably because of our situation.
Dixie licks her finger clean. “So now that you know I’m jobless and homeless, why can’t you guys leave and go back to where you came from?”
I roll my eyes as I study her posture, her face. Four years in New York City taught me a lot about people. I’d often do my homework in coffee shops and people-watch for hours. Brit and I would make up stories about the pedestrians we saw through the windows, giving everyone a happily ever after, of course. Dixie is tough, no doubt, but she’s also hurting, and that’s why she’s lashing out.
Amber waves away Dixie’s question. “I think one confession is enough for our first day. I’m going to go take a nap.”
“You can’t run away from us all summer,” Dixie says.
“I’m not running away.” Amber rounds the breakfast bar. “I’m exhausted from traveling, so I think that earns me a pass.”
“It does,” I tell her.
She gives me a small smile and leaves the room.
Dixie stands and starts cleaning up the mess I made of the kitchen before Vaughn showed up. “So what’s your deal? Shouldn’t you be with mommy and daddy on some celebratory trip to Europe or something? You did just graduate, right?”
“I wanted a change of scenery this summer.” Dixie has no idea I haven’t lived at home since I left for college, staying summers in the city to work and inviting my parents to visit me during holidays.
“Ha! I bet you’re wishing you’d chosen someplace else.” She covers the frittata with plastic wrap and puts it in the fridge then leans her hip against the granite countertop. “Luckily the house is plenty big enough for all of us if we don’t want to talk to one another. Aunt Sally will just have to deal.”
Dixie’s eyes shift to the Tiffany’s bag. “What’s that?”
“Nothing.” I grab the gift and put it in my lap to hide it from view.
“You suck at”—she makes air quotes—“nothing. It’s written all over your face that it’s something. So, come on, spill. I’m a good listener. You wouldn’t believe some of the stories I’ve heard while bartending.”
“Why would I tell you anything?”
“You know what? You’re right. You stay in your corner and I’ll stay in mine.” She resumes cleaning like I’m no longer in the same room.
The truth is I’m way out of my element when it comes to Vaughn, while Dixie could probably write a book on the topic of men. Maybe this could be the first step toward building a relationship with her. I put the bag back on the counter. “It’s a gift from Vaughn.”
She tosses the sponge into the sink. “No shit. What for?”
“A thank-you for letting him sleep on the couch last night. There was a party going on at his house, and he needed someplace to crash.”
Dixie might not have a college degree, but she’s wicked smart. She squints, assessing me. “Let me get this straight. You met the guy last night. Let him sleep on the couch because shit was going down at his house, and he brings you an expensive gift to say thanks.”
“Sounds about right.”
“Half right, maybe, but I don’t really care. Are you going to open it?”
