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“I’m taking a break. I can do design work remotely, and Susan will handle the rest while I’m away.” Susan is her partner and the closest thing she has to a friend.
“Have you told Kelsey?”
“Of course. She thinks it’s a splendid idea. She’s been pushing for me to sell for years.”
I’m the last to know. I’m always the last to know. She told my sister, made provisions for her business, listed the house, and then shared her plans with me.
Why am I always an afterthought?
I try to hide the hurt, but a familiar twinge hits me in the vicinity of my heart. Instead of acknowledging it, I say, “Good for you.”
Some of her tension dissipates. It’s obvious she was nervous to tell me. Which makes no sense. Or maybe it makes perfect sense—since we ignore any topic that might make us uncomfortable.
“I’m surprised you’ve decided to travel.” She never goes anywhere, and it’s the only thing I can think to say.
She stiffens. “It isn’t as if I’m leaving you alone.”
“I know. I’ll be fine,” I quickly assure her. I didn’t mean to imply she shouldn’t travel. I hate our relationship. No matter what I say, it’s the wrong thing.
She nods her head once. “You’ll tell your father.”
“Excuse me?” I’m certain I heard her wrong. Father is not a word in her vocabulary.
“Your father. You’ll tell him I’m moving.”
Speech fails me. After eighteen years of pretending he doesn’t exist, she expects me to pass on a message? I open and close my mouth twice before I manage to say, “I don’t know.”
“He won’t care. But he should know. We bought the house together. We were going to grow old in it.”
“We never talk about my father.” I grip the edge of the table for support.
She shrugs. “You see him all the time. He was always your favorite.”
Inadequacy slams into me. Of course he is my favorite. He might have moved out and broken her, but he still cared about me. His support was steadfast, and even though his new wife resented me and he had two other kids to worry about, he was available when I needed something. Unlike my mother, who was too caught up in her own pain to acknowledge mine.
I clutch the table harder. My knuckles turn white. The silence stretches while I try to think of a reply. When nothing comes, I shoot out of my chair. “Let me know if you need help packing.”
I grab my bag and my jacket and nearly crash into a stroller in my haste to exit.
I’m rarely impulsive, but I’m reeling, so instead of going home, I head into the city. I make it all the way to Slater’s door before I pause.
What in the hell am I doing?
I pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers.
I’ve been avoiding him, and now I’m standing in front of his door desperate to see him.
I probably shouldn’t knock. If I do, I’m going to have a hard time keeping myself from begging him to take his shirt off.
We crossed a line and it’s impossible to go back. I’m not sure I can be his friend, not after touching his body and tasting his mouth. But I’m not sure I can be more than his friend, either.
I knock apprehensively.
“Ellie,” he says as he swings open the door, an inscrutable expression on his face.
He’s fully clothed in joggers and a long-sleeved shirt, which ought to make our conversation easier.
It won’t.
