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She shrugs. “I guess.” She pauses, eyeing me like she knows something. My heartbeat quickens, like a moth trying to escape a lampshade. “He’s being really weird, but no one believes me. Mom says he’s not, or she says he’s tired, but that can’t be true because he sleeps more than I do. I think he’s got a girlfriend or he’s moving out soon. I don’t like it.”
I look away, terrified that this eight-year-old girl will see the truth in my wide-eyed expression. But that doesn’t explain the odd pang of jealousy that nips me in the chest at the mention of a girlfriend. Maybe, Rowan has fallen head over heels in love with someone in the two weeks since I last saw him—someone with a heart that’s open and available. I, of all people, know how quickly love can happen when it’s right, so it’s not impossible.
“What makes you think he has a girlfriend?” I can’t help asking.
Grace pulls a sour face. “Boys act funny when they have girlfriends.”
“But your uncle would be happy if he had a girlfriend, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t be acting all weird, like you say,” I press, not sure why I need to know about Rowan’s love life so desperately. It’s not like I’m part of it. It’s not like I’m competing for his affections. I took myself out of that race before the starting pistol even fired.
“Don’t ask me. I don’t even like boys,” Grace tells me, her attention diverted by Lyndsey’s entrance into the garden. “Mom, Summer got here safe!”
Lyndsey smiles. “I can see that.” Her smile falters for a minute, her brow creasing as she adds, “Summer, can I talk to you for a sec?”
My heart plummets into my stomach, like it can force its way out and avoid a difficult conversation altogether. “Sure,” I say as breezily as I can. “Inside?”
Lyndsey nods and steps back into the kitchen. I dip my head to press a kiss to Grace’s hair, and walk off to face my fate. Clearly, Lyndsey knows. I don’t know how she knows, but “talk to you for a sec?” smarts of trouble. Either Rowandidtell her, or she’s put two and two together, and I’m not sure which is worse. No matter how she found out, she’s going to hate me for it. I’ve weaseled my way into her family and into her life enough, without adding a drunken mistake with her brother into the mix.
A mistake? Is that what we’re calling it?an increasingly obnoxious part of my mind whispers, serving as a reminder that, though I’ve wrestled with the guilt of what happened for two whole weeks, there’s something in me that refuses to fully regret it. The good parts, at least. The relief that I found in Rowan, before I ruined it.
I’ve barely sat myself down at the kitchen island when Lyndsey jumps in, stopping short of flashing a megawatt bulb in my face as she asks, “Where the hell have you been, Summer? You’ve had me worried sick!”
“I’m… on time, aren’t I? You said one o’clock.”
“Not today, dumbass. I’ve called and texted a dozen times, and… nothing. I thought… I thought you’d done something stupid, Summer.” Lyndsey’s voice catches, hooking onto the all-too familiar cadence of paranoid panic. “I picked up my keys about a hundred times, ready to drive to your apartment and check that you weren’t freaking dead. If it wasn’t for Oscar and Rowan, I probably would’ve.”
I blink in confusion. “I… didn’t get any calls.” At least, I don’t think I did. I pull out my phone and see the little ‘Do Not Disturb’ symbol on the notification bar, cursing under my breath. “Shit, I’m so sorry, Lynds.”
I switched my phone to DND mode after Rowan’s unanswered text, and I must’ve forgotten to change it back. The only reason Lyndsey got through to me yesterday, to remind me about today, was because she called the gallery. Jada passed on the message:Lunch at one o’clock. Don’t be late.
I show Lyndsey the offending symbol, and she rolls her eyes.
“You’re an idiot,” she grumbles, softening.
“I know. Prize-winning.” I flash a meek, apologetic smile. “But what did you mean about Oscar and Rowan?”
Lyndsey pours herself a glass of water and gulps it down, answering me between mouthfuls, “Oscar gave me… the logical argument. Said the girls from… the gallery would’ve called if… you didn’t show up to work. Rowan said he… saw you a… couple of times on his drive… back from work.”
“He did?” I falter. “When?”
Lyndsey finishes the glass and refills it. “Last week. The week before.”
“I haven’t seen him.” I’m not sure if I’m digging him a hole that he won’t be able to explain his way out of.
“No, because you scared the crap out of him,” Lyndsey scolds, narrowing her eyes in a teasing frown. “I don’t know what you said or did to him when Grace was sick, but he’s terrified of you. Can’t say I’m not a little bit pleased, though. The moment I sent him to the cooking class in my place, I had this gnawing thought at the back of my head—‘what if he makes a move on her.’ I warned him not to, but brothers never listen to sisters. Should’ve known you’d be able to handle him. Whatdidyou say, out of curiosity?”
The truth is on the tip of my tongue, but I’m too much of a coward to let it slip past my lips. The lips that kissed her brother with a hunger that still keeps me awake at night, and has my head in a spin, locked in a battle of wills between what’s right and what’s wrong.
“It’s nothing I said, exactly.” I tread carefully, measuring my words. “I got pretty drunk and had my usual Ben breakdown. Even if you hadn’t warned him off me, I think that would’ve done the job.”
Lyndsey comes around to my side of the kitchen island and pulls me into a hug that nearly topples me from the stool. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
“I’m sorry Grace ate raw cookie dough,” I mumble into her shoulder, hugging her back. “And that I put my phone on ‘Do Not Disturb’ and made you worry.”
But I’m even sorrier that I stopped Rowan that night, when that was just about the best thing that has happened to me in two years,the demon on myshoulder whispers, and I can’t even argue. No matter how many times I replay the scene on the couch—and I’ve replayed it a lot in my mind, both willingly and unwillingly—I just see a woman enjoying the company of a man, wearing a smile on her face, exorcised of her ghosts, losing herself in something other than loss. I envy that woman. I envy her moment’s peace. I envy her freedom, and though every therapist has told me that I’m in control, that I just need to reach out and grab happiness again when it comes along, my hands remain tied behind my back. Even if I loosen the restraints a little, grief or guilt just swoops right in to tighten them up.
“I forgive you,” Lyndsey says quietly, hugging me tighter.
But if she knew the truth, would she?
