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“Thank you. It was . . . pretty awesome.”
“I so wish I could have been there, but I have stupid work.” There’s an audible pout in her voice. “I’ll head down soon, though, and eat you out of everything!” Lilah works up north as a pharmaceutical rep, going from doctor’s office to doctor’s office, using her charm and striking looks to help pay for fancy shoes and exciting outings with friends.
“Of course! You’re welcome any time. You can stay with me in my new apartment!”
“We’ll have to sneak me into town though. Dad keeps trying to set me up on dates with his friends’ sons. I’m like, do Ilooklike I’d make a good politician’s wife? Ugh.” I can almost hear the eye roll and head shake she’d make, her dark-blonde hair in a perfect blowout swaying from side to side. While I got Dad’s Irish heritage, red-tinged hair and fair skin, Lilah looks like mom, a short, curvy thing with long blonde hair and skin that tans perfectly.
I hated her for that for a time, the fact that I got the ass and none of the boobs. I got the sunburn and the strawberry-blonde hair and the height and the jokes about being a leprechaun when I was the one who kept Mom’s promises and secrets. Lilah got all the good parts of our family while getting the least of the pressure.
Sometimes it just felt unfair.
But I also gotMom. Lilah was only 10 when she passed, barely eight when she first got sick. I have fifteen years where Lilah had to scramble through her formative years with me as her womanly guide.
But it also reminds me of my talk with Sam earlier. I can’t help but wonder if she’s heard similar rumblings. Her crew is different, so far out of Ocean View, most people don’t recognize the name, but she still has friends in town.
“Hey, have you . . . Have you talked to Dad lately?” I ask, trying to be subtle.
I suck at subtle.
Thankfully, Lilah is pretty good at notseeingsubtle in any form.
“Uh, no, not this week. I called him . . . last week?” She pauses like she’s picturing the days of the week in her mind. “Yeah. Last Thursday because I was getting ready to go out and he was jabbering on about how he wanted a family dinner. Some kind of photo op. I’ve been out of the town for like, three weeks total. He’s so dramatic.”
For a split second, I think about spilling to her.
She’s old enough. Old enough to bear the weight of this drama, this stress. And who knows, maybe she’ll have a solution that I haven’t been able to see.
But if I did that, other secrets would be revealed. Other secrets that could change her life forever. So as with every other pain point in the strained relationship between my father and me, I don’t tell Lilah.
I’ve worked the last fifteen years to keep her in the dark, keep her from being touched by the frustration and insanity that is my father’s addiction. Why would I threaten that now?
“Did he . . . say anything?”
“He said lots of things, Lola. He always does.” A fumbling comes through the line, then she yells, “Bye, Molly! Be good!” before there’s the slamming of the door and the beeping of a car fob coming through the line. “Alright, sis, I gotta go. I love you! I’ll come visit soon, yeah? Shoot me a text. I’m so proud of you, babe.”
“Will do. Love you!” I say and then stand in the bakery all alone, staring at the wall as the phone goes dead.
Five
-Lola-
Every bone,muscle, and tendon aches with exhaustion, but I’m wide awake.
After a day of baking, handling the press, and doing interview after interview, smiling next to my father without grimacing at the fact that he only said a handful of words to me (all carefully chosen and within the earshot of reporters), then a full day of running my own business and cleaning said bakery and prepping for day two, every single atom of my body is tired.
But day one is done.
New Lola is here, and we’re starting with an exciting clean slate.
While I’ve been in and out of the bakery for the last month, making it my own and perfecting everything, the lease for the apartment above it didn’t start until yesterday, meaning the day before my new bakery opened, I was moving things from Sam’s place, where I was staying between apartments since he’s rarely ever there, and the storage facility I had rented to my new home.
I had to drag everything down the three flights of stairs at his place, into a box truck I had rented, and then back up the narrow steps separating my space from my neighbor’s. Sam offered to help, but with how busy he is, I didn’t want to bother him. So it was just me and my not very present muscles lugging boxes until I wanted to collapse.
Then I ran out to the distribution center to get the hundreds of pounds of flour, sugars, butter, eggs, and whatever else I would need to feed the sweet tooth of the Ocean View boardwalk.
And as I lay in my bed (that I had to painstakingly push up the stairs and then assemble), everything hurts. Exhaustion weighs me down like one of those weighted blankets.
I think moving my toes would be an impossibility.
