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Instead of spending my birthday clubbing with my friends, wearing out my fake I.D., and posing for the paparazzi, I’m struggling to breathe against what feels like an eighteen-wheeler rolling back and forth across my chest.
Twenty minutes late for my visitation to Mom’s hell, I pull my ’69 Mustang along the curb behind David’s boring black sedan. That’s where I lock my gaze. Not on the iron gates to my right or the sprawling estate behind them that could be a fancy bed-and-breakfast—but isn’t.
The rough rumble of my engine merges with the Eminem blasting through my speakers and shimmies under my skin in an anxious vibration that has me palming the gearshift, tapping the clutch, itching to bail.
Before I can peel off the curb, David’s out of his car, striding toward me already on his way to an OCD aneurism. Silver-haired and sixty, his inner lawyer comes wrapped in a lean runner’s body, leaving no doubt to the miles he clocks on his office treadmill. He’s also all business, only business, and nothing but business—down to the tailored gray suit, sharp black tie, and third-degree vibe. Solid trait in an attorney. Not so much in a self-appointed watchdog.
Pulling off his dark glasses, he knocks once on my window. “You were supposed to be here at three, Gabe.”
When they were handing out personalities, David got shoved into theUptight Robotline. Except for the summer we refurbed this car, he’s spent my life circling the outer edge of our family. First as Mom’s lawyer, then as her I-don’t-know-what, now as a last lifeline I don’t want.
Before he can knock again, my sister exits the passenger side of his sedan.
She’s the reason I cut the engine and get out. The ten months between us make her less older sibling, more twin. My partner in crime, best friend, cheerleader, and the only family I really have left.
Instead of running to hug me the way she always does, she plants her feet on the sidewalk and hugs herself. On par with Mom’s slavery to style, my sister’s face is porcelain-perfect. Sleek blonde hair spills past her shoulders. But her flawless appearance doesn’t mask the stress in her eyes or distract from the way her maxi dress hangs on her too-slender waist.
“Nicole thought it might be easier for you if she came.” David’s the only person who refuses to call Coley by her nickname. It’s not that hard. Cole-y.
And nothing will make this easier. Especially not the hopeless way she’s looking at me. I tug the brim of my cap.
“Items we need to cover.” David holds up two plastic keycards like he’s logging evidence in the courtroom. “Your room’s under my name.” He hands me the card with the logo from the hotel closest to his office. “And no Gabriel Wade bullshit while you’re here.” In one barbed look, he manages to nail me with equal amounts of accusation and disappointment. It’s his gift.
“It’s not like I’m planning to rattle the fangirl radar.” My gaze accidently strays toward the iron gates. I flex my fingers. I don’t need David to remind me any limelight I draw comes with the risk of outing Mom. The impossible promise I made to her to hidewhyshe’s here tightens around my neck, choking me hard enough to strangle a rabid pit bull into submission.
David holds up the other card—my ticket past the gates and the reason we had to meet outside—and resumes his lecture with a deep-ass frown. “Don’t lose this one.”
Didn’t lose the old one. I know exactly where it is. Shoved under Trevor Gray’s latest novel on my dresser back in North Carolina where my show films.
He slaps the card into my palm. “Do you know how much red tape it took to replace this?”
I pocket both cards without my usual sarcastic comeback. The embassy-level security, the privacy tacked onto that security, is the reason David picked The Oasis. No one here gives a rip my mom is Meredith Wade, former star ofRaising Ryder—one of TV’s longest-running family dramas—and TV land’s twist on your traditional mom-next-door.
“Visiting hours end early on Sunday.” Coley finally decides to join us. “Since you’re already three months late...” She blows out a long breath.
I sweat under the brim of my cap. Not because October in Dallas would be summer anywhere else. “I was working.” Mostly. “Your tuition’s due at SMU and—”
“Mom paid both semesters before—”
“Right.” Because I love my sister, I swallow the truth that I’m the one bankrolling her and let her keep living in Fantasyland like Mom didn’t lose everything we had. Almost everything I had.
“The power of attorney won’t go through until the end of the week.” David makes a microscopic adjustment to his already-straight tie. “Couldn’t file until you turned eighteen.”
Eighteen. A joke of a number the court picked that proclaims me ready to deal with grown-up shit when I haven’t even graduated high school.
“You should take the power of attorney.” I step closer to Coley. “You’re in college.” Smarter. Not a screw-up. I already asked David, but he refused.
“I’m two months into freshman year.” Linking her fingers together, she squeezes until the skin on her knuckles turns white.
“Nicole’s juggling classes.” His soft, fatherly voice fades when he faces me. “You holding the power of attorney makes more sense.”
It actually makes so little sense I bite back an ironic laugh. Letting me steer my family’s future is like tossing a thirteen-year-old boy the keys to a Ferrari.
David shifts on the sidewalk. We’re behind schedule and, judging by his twitchy feet, it’s getting to him. “I added our meeting with the Realtor to your calendar.”
The thought of walking into my house knowing Mom’s never coming back spikes a spin in my stomach. “You coming to the meeting?” I glance at my sister.
She glances at the ground.
