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Quinn’s hands are like my security blanket, and by the gentle, reassuring squeeze, he knows it, too.
As soon as I step into the grand foyer, a pang of anger hits me straight in the guts. This house is huge.
From the polished floorboards to the white spiral staircase leading up to God knows how many floors above us, I can’t help but compare this home to the house I grew up in back in LA.
My house was barely standing by the time I left, not to mention that it contained my dying father, bleeding out on the basement floor.
Sadly for me and the rest of humanity, he didn’t die. And that’s the reason I’m here.
“Come into the sitting room,” Cynthia says over her shoulder.
I follow blindly, as I have no idea what a sitting room is.
The house smells like cinnamon and fresh flowers, and I notice a bunch of roses sitting on top of a mahogany coffee table as we enter. The room has a small brown sofa and two matching recliners. The bright embers in the fireplace, which are softly crackling, give the pretty room a homey feel.
“Sit, please.” Cynthia gestures to the brown sofa with a shaky hand.
I look at it, and like everything else in this house, it’s fucking perfect.
Gaping down at my ratty clothes and muddy boots, I realize I don’t belong here. I will never fit in with all the perfect white linens, floral wallpaper, and fucking fresh flowers. I never will.
“Please, Mia,” Cynthia begs again when I stand defiantly, gazing around the room.
“Fine,” I gripe, sitting rigidly on the sofa.
Quinn takes a seat near me, ensuring our knees remain touching. His simple gesture is done with intent, illustrating he’s here with me every step of the way.
“Let me get you some tea,” Cynthia says, fiddling with her gold charm bracelet as she stands awkwardly in the middle of the room.
The teenager has slumped into a recliner, eyeing me something wicked. From her looks, I’d say she’s about sixteen, but it’s hard to tell under her layers of makeup. Her sizable boobs make mine look laughable, and she’s all womanly curves, while I’m slender and toned.
We couldn’t look more different. Well, apart from our eyes.
“Who is she, Mom?” she asks, glaring at me.
My gaze never wavers from her, as this littlebratin front of me surely cannot be who I think she is. If she were, that would mean my mother left me alone in the care of my father while she was pregnant, and I would surely remember having a sister.
It would also mean my mother made a choice to save her, but not me. She left me there to rot, and by the looks of her house and her appearance, Cynthia hasn’t looked back on her decision with regret.
Cynthia looks uncomfortable as she adjusts the belt on her gold pantsuit. I can’t wait to hear her explanation because I, too, need to know the answer.
“Mom?” the teenager presses, anger lacing her tone.
Cynthia looks over at me and sighs once before replying in a mere whisper, “She’s your…sister.”
The color drains from my face, as hearing what I knew to be true is almost impossible to digest.
“What the fuck?” we say in unison.
Well, looks like we reallyaresisters.
“Pollyanna!” Cynthia scolds. “Language!”
Pollyanna slumps low, crossing her arms over her chest while sticking out her plump bottom lip. “Well, how do you expect me to react? You tell me this”—she scowls at me—“freakis my sister, and I’m just supposed to be happy about it. I mean…look at her.”
I feel myself redden from anger but also embarrassment.
“Enough!” Cynthia snaps, turning to look at my sist—Pollyanna. “Go to your room!”
