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I grab my phone,my palms already sweaty with nerves.Come on, Sis, please pick up,I silently plead as I dial her number. After all, we used to be close. I was her go-to person for emergencies like, ‘I have nothing to wear,’ or, ‘How to survive your life while it seems to be falling apart?’ and my favorite, ‘How do I dump the loser I’m dating without him keying my car?’
In fact, I was there for her during her bad breakups and crappy dates. She could be that for me now, right?
I scroll and find her contact right away. Then, I hit call and wait. The phone goes straight to voicemail—cue the dramatic eye roll and a muttered, “Thanks for the sisterly love, huh?”
“You reached Mac. If this is Bishop—don’t leave me a dirty message. But you can sext me at any time. Everyone else, you know what to do.”
Beeeep.
I gawk at the phone. Who is Bishop? She exchanges dirty messages with him? And that’s probably why she sent me to voicemail because I don’t know anything about her new life.
Taking a deep breath, I say, “Hey, McKay, it’s me, Lou. Louanne. So, I know I have been the lousiest big sister in the world, and I should’ve done better, but . . . I had too much pressure on me, and now—” A heavy sigh escapes me. What now? Do I even have the right to waltz back into her life just because I need help?
I don’t deserve her, but, hey, what’s the harm in asking for forgiveness? “Sorry for being such a bitch. I should’ve done better. I hope we can talk and . . . well, please give me a call when you’re not too busy saving the planet or whatever it is that you do these days. Love ya.” I hang up, fighting the urge to toss my phone across the room.
This is on me for not being the big sister she needed when her life imploded. I’m living proof that karma is legit real. And I’m totally paying for my behavior.
“Alright, Lou, time for Plan B,” I announce to no one.
Is there even a Plan B? I have no freaking clue.
I could call my brothers, but three of them are extremely busy kissing my father’s ass—afraid that they’ll lose everything like McKay and I did. But you know who didn’t lose anything and stopped being at Dad’s beck and call? My big brother Paul. He’s the smart one.
My brother made his own money, and when he saw what happened to McKay he cashed out, leaving everyone else behind to be with his little sister.
What if . . . he’s willing to give me a chance? I hope he doesn’t send me to voicemail or block me like Dad did.
“McFolley speaking,” he answers with his usual upbeat tone.
“Hey, Paul, it’s Lou,” I mumble, feeling a twinge of unease.
“You changed your number?” He sounds puzzled.
“Umm, yeah, after the divorce, I lost more than just my last name,” I say, trying to keep my voice light while I absentmindedly twist a strand of hair around my finger.
“I heard about the divorce,” he responds, and I bite back the question of why he didn’t check in on me. “How are you holding up, Lou?”
“Still alive. Single, childless, but in good news, I haven’t started collecting cats . . . yet.” I laugh dryly.
He chuckles. “Glad to hear you haven’t lost your sense of humor.”
Haven’t I? I feel like I lost it somewhere between ‘sign these papers ending our life together’ and ‘meet Dee Dee, my new soulmate, fiancée, and our children’s new mother.’
“It’s fading more every day,” I sigh, deflating like a sad balloon. “So, listen, as much as I wish this was just a social call to catch up, I . . . I actually need help.”
“You need money?” Paul guesses.
“No, it’s more complicated. I need a miracle,” I confess, biting my lip, and launch into telling him about my separation, the bitter divorce, and Ameline’s plan to get custody of my children.
I need a job, stability, and a way to show the judge that I’ve changed since Anthony painted me as a drunk socialite. Which I was not. Just because I had a glass of champagne here and there during galas or attended wine tastings with friends, it . . . it doesn’t matter. He used all of that and then some against me.
“Seems like something you can accomplish,” he says. “You have an art major with a minor in interior design. I bet you can get a job anywhere.”
“Maybe if I was an energetic twenty-something with fresh ideas,” I counter, a hint of bitterness in my voice. “Without any real-work experience, I’m looking at entry-level positions, and let’s just say . . . well, I’m not who they’re looking for.”
“Maybe you need a change,” he proposes. “Find something new that you can make work for you.”
Change? My heart skips a beat. I’ve had enough change to last a lifetime, thank you very much. But something in Paul’s tone makes me listen. Maybe it’s time to turn the page and start a new chapter. God knows this one’s been a downer.
