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“Thanks, sweetheart.” The warm pressure of his palm leaves my shoulder as he reaches for her hand. “I knew you kids would work things out together. I was just telling your mother I don’t know what I’d do without you three.”
A few months ago, this moment would’ve meant everything to me. Not only winning my father’s approval but securing his confidence. To think, he’s essentially put me in charge during his recovery. He’s actually counting onme, the eternally unreliable. The scenario seems so far-fetched, I’m tempted to pinch myself. This is everything I’ve ever wanted.
At least, it used to be.
But now, I can’t help thinking about Brynn and Ethan. I abandoned them without an explanation, left without a goodbye. And Whiskers is in my apartment right now, alone in an unfamiliar place.
I should be overjoyed that I’ve finally made my father proud and left behind the moniker that has haunted me my entire life. I’m no longer Quincy the Quitter, the missing link in my family of overachievers. But at what cost? Now there are other people in my life who are important to me, who I care for deeply, and I’ve let them down.
What’s worse? I don’t know if I can ever make it up to them.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SIX
Since the doctors want to observe Dad for a few more days, we’ve been taking turns at the hospital. This afternoon is Matt’s shift, so I’m free to go on my fool’s errand—trying to locate my camp trinkets from when we were kids. I don’t know why, but I’m desperate to find the friendship bracelet Brynn made for me, the one with green and purple thread dotted with tiny pink beads. I’m also searching for the matching tie-dyed T-shirt we stamped with our handprints, although I doubt it will still fit me.
I shove aside another dusty box, sighing in frustration. I’ve dug through half of our garage already with no luck. But why my parents felt the need to save so many pairs of bell-bottoms, I’ll never know. “This may be a big waste of time,” I tell Whiskers, who’s wreaking havoc in a large cardboard box filled with my old, lumpy stuffed animals so I can keep tabs on her. I’ve already noticed several missing eyes and torn limbs, but I’m experiencing a strong bout of “mom guilt” for taking her from Wilson, so I let her have her fun, no matter how sadistic it might seem.
Wilson…The image of his sweet, fluffy face twists the knot in my stomach even tighter. I’ve tried to avoid thinking about him until I make a decision about my future. I’ve also avoided texts and voice mails from Brynn and Ethan for the same reason. Honestly, it’s been torture. I’m fairly certain if someone were to look up The Worst Person in the World in the dictionary, they’d see my photo.
But I have no idea what I’d even say to them. How can I tell them that the one thing I want more than anything is to be back in New York, with them, but I’m not sure I can leave my family. Not now. Not when they finally need me.
“Quincy? Are you in here?” Veronica trips over a stack of open boxes, spilling the contents. Matt’s high school gym clothes litter the concrete floor, and she wrinkles her nose. “Ew. Is that a jockstrap?”
“Sadly, not the grossest thing I’ve found out here.” I cringe, recalling the ancient retainer that had a rather disturbing odor.
“What are you looking for?” She surveys the barricade of boxes, both hands on her slim hips. Dressed in her Lululemon leggings and a long cashmere sweater—not to mention her sleek ponytail without a single stray hair—she looks more like herself today.
“Just a few things from camp.”
“Why?”
I hesitate, wondering how to explain it when I barely understand my motivation myself.
She seems to sense that it’s a weighty topic and holds up her hand. “Never mind. Don’t tell me.”
“Did you need something?” I lift an old soccer jersey out of the box, realizing that while I wouldn’t normally choose her company, I’m grateful for the distraction from my plaguing thoughts.
“Who played soccer?” she asks.
“I did.”
“Strange. I don’t remember that.”
“I don’t see why you would,” I say with a shrug. “You never came to any of the games. And I didn’t even last a full season.”
“I don’t blame you. Not when the uniforms are this tacky.” She pulls a face at the shimmery polyester fabric, then her gaze falls on a faded playbill. “Wait. You were inThe Wizard of Oz?”
“Sophomore year. I was supposed to be the Tin Man but dropped out before opening night.” I don’t mention it’s partially because she caught me practicing my lines and told me that all the oil cans in the world couldn’t save my stiff performance.
She stares at the playbill, turning it over in her hand as if she’d never seen one before, and I can’t help wondering what she’s doing here. She didn’t come out to our garage to take a morbid trip down memory lane.
“I owe you an apology.”
I blink in bewilderment. What did she say? I’m unable to recall a single time my sister apologized for anything. At least, not without parental insistence and under duress. And for years, I’ve overlooked her poor behavior, letting it slide as her spitefulness slowly eroded our relationship even further. But maybe she’s not the only one to blame. Maybe it’s time I tell her exactly how I feel.
“Yes,” I whisper, my voice a tenuous tremor. “You do.”
Now, it’s her turn to be surprised. “What?”
