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That’s always been Ros. Once Mom and I realized she was comfortable that way, we just let her be herself.
Now, I do a double take.
What the...?
She’s wearing a see-through light coral cardigan over—not much of anything.
There’s a single button fastened between her breasts while the rest hangs open over her bare stomach. Underneath, she has a magenta push-up bra in lace with wired cups that lift her breasts into the kind of straining, full mounds that make me think that underwire’s got to be cutting sodeep.I cringe in sympathy.
Her jeans are pure street princess, low and tight and ripped, showing the little creases of flesh along the bottom curve of her stomach that dip down toward her crotch. There’s even a hint of the tiny ladybug tattoo stamped just over the curve of her hip bone.
Ladybug.
Our mother was always about bees and Ros loved ladybugs.
Me, I have a small blue butterfly tattoo on my ankle, just as small as that little red dot on Ros’ hip. The ink is just as weathered since we’d gotten them together that day, holding hands and trying not to flinch as the needles marked our flesh, giggling in that goofy way only sisters can when something crazy goes down.
And she normally wears her blonde hair in a sensible bun while she’s working, but now it’s blown out, falling down her shoulders and chest, framing a face I struggle to recognize.
She’s made up with sultry fuck-me red lipstick, glossy vixen red nails, and a solid smoky eyeshadow, though I don’t think all of the darkness around her eyes is makeup.
Some of it seems almost sunken. Bruised.
These hollows match the dips in her too-thin cheeks.
Yikes.
Now, I see why Grant thought something was up.
It’s not the new look. Not at all.
If Ros just decided on a whim that she wanted a punky makeover to come out of her shell as a flirty, sexy girl, that wouldn’t be a red flag of the apocalypse.
No, it’s the way her pupils jitter as she looks up from wiping down the counter and her gaze lands on me.
It’s the haunted nervousness in her eyes.
The way her fingers look almost like claws as they grasp the paper towel.
Plus, the syrupy falseness in her smile as she brightens, watching me with a mix of delight and wariness.
“Ophelia!” she cries like she’s just completely forgotten I was in town.
Only it comes out strange, thick and slurred, like her tongue is swollen and a little numb.
I’mdefinitely a little numb as she comes flitting around the counter, moving with this wild energy that can’t be Ros, and pulls me into her arms.
She buries her face against my shoulder, hugging me so tight it hurts.
“It’s awesome to see you,” she says. “We missed you so much...”
“So much that you haven’t come home for an hour since I’ve been in town?” I ask, unable to help the sharpness in my tone.
Ros pulls back with a pout. “Not fair. I’ve been busy as hell keeping the lights on here.”
“So busy you can’t even come home tosleep?”
With an offended gasp, Ros fully lets go, stepping back defensively.
