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Miranda doesn't miss a beat. "Clearly. But I do have news."
I head to the fridge for a beer. It's early, but I need something to steady myself. "I have to be at work soon. Can we speed this up? What does Dad want now?"
She hesitates, then drops the bombshell. "Dad’s dead."
The beer stops midway to my lips, warmth draining from my face. "Dead?" I whisper, disbelief coloring my voice. Miranda nods.
"Cancer. You probably don’t care, but he's been cremated. There’s a memorial in Lake Tahoe this weekend. I’m supposed to insist you come."
The word ‘insist’ brings me out of my shock. My family doesn’t get to ‘insist’ I do anything anymore. I shake my head, adamant. "I can’t. Like I said, I have work."
Miranda's shrug feels heavy with implication. "Then they’ll keep doing this." I'm tempted to ask who 'they' are but hold back. In the back of my head, I know who it is anyway. Fucking bastard cousins.
"Let them. I’ve dealt with worse my whole life."
Miranda scoffs and rolls her head like a spoiled child. "You didn’t have to, Tilly. Dad would have welcomed you back with open arms."
I scoff right back, like we’re playing that old mirroring game we used to as kids. "Dad is many things, but forgiving isn’t one of them."
Her eyes narrow coldly, her gaze piercing into me like two ice daggers. "Was many things. He’s dead, remember?"
That stings. I’m not immune to the passing of my father. Really. I did love the guy, in my own way. But we never, and I mean, never got along. He was always trying to shape me into his vision. Lucky for him, he had a spare kid that was more than happy to fill the role. If I hadn’t run away, I’m certain I would be dressed and acting exactly how Miranda does. Still, my father is dead and I’m suddenly overcome with a mix of guilt and sorrow. "I’m, uh, sorry, Miranda. Are you okay?" Despite everything, Miranda has always been very close to our father, for obvious reasons.
Suddenly, she's hugging me, tears streaming down her face. It takes me a moment to wrap my arms around her, too shocked by her vulnerability. "He was so sick at the end, Til. He refused to let me tell you. You're both so goddamn stubborn."
Holding her, I think about our father. To Miranda, he was not the monster I knew, but her champion. Though we've never really gotten along, she's still my sister. Seeing her hurt is not easy and gives me no satisfaction. Sighing, I realize I can't be the frigid bitch about this that I want to be. "I know, Andy," I say softly, calling her by her childhood nickname in an attempt to offer comfort.
Miranda pulls back, her eyes pleading. "Please come to the memorial. I hate that they do this to you."
Considering her request, I realize I have the opportunity to confront whoever's behind the vandalism directly. Plus, Rick can manage the shop. It’s winter and the surf lessons are sparse right now. The idea of attending doesn't thrill me but seeing Miranda this distraught changes things. "Okay, Andy. I'll come."
She eyes me warily. "You’re not just gonna run off to Paris or something?"
I shake my head. "I’m many things, but not a liar."
Miranda offers a small chuckle, then sniffles. "Want me to replace your furniture?"
I smile, glancing at the duct-taped couch. "No. The duct tape gives it character." She heads for the door but stops to hand me a business card. "Call this number. Let them know when you're arriving. They'll sort out a room for the week and make sure you're included in all the functions."
The thought of attending those stuffy, high-society events makes me cringe. Fancy dresses, elaborate hairstyles, and too-friendly relatives. Fucking Great Uncle Harold. If I have to slap that man’s hand off my ass one more time, I’m going to shove one of my drumsticks down his throat. I don’t care how old he is, there’s no excuse. Yet, for Miranda's sake, I'm willing to endure it.
I take the card and nod. "Okay," I mutter.
Miranda heads for the door, turning back with a smile that's oddly proud, leaving me to wonder if I've just been expertly manipulated by my own sister. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to find out that’s the truth. "I'll see you in a few days then," she says before stepping out and closing the door behind her.
Left alone, I collapse onto the couch, burying my head in my hands. For a moment, I let the tears come—tears borne not just of sadness for my father's death but from the sheer overwhelming sense of confusion and surprise at Miranda's visit. I try to sift through my memories for any happy moments shared with my father, but all that surfaces is the way his face would contort in displeasure whenever I was around. We might not have outright hated each other, but finding a genuinely pleasant memory feels like searching for the perfect wave on a rocky shore.
Suddenly, I feel an arm wrap around me, and I stiffen for a split second before realizing Tommy had been hiding away during Miranda's visit. Turning into him, I let myself be engulfed by the warmth of his bare chest, my sobs breaking free. Tommy's arms encircle me tighter, offering silent comfort as I cry out the tangled emotions stirring inside me.
Chapter eight
Tommy
Ihave no idea what happened while I was squatting in Tilly’s closet. During my hiding, I did notice that all of Tilly’s clothes are on the floor. For a while, I busied myself picking up different pieces, but each and every one was cut in some way. Her earlier comment about not having any clothes suddenly makes sense. But when I heard the door close and came out to find her crying, I knew there was only one thing to do. After Tilly calms down a bit, I find the courage to speak up even though I hate prying. "You wanna tell me what’s going on?"
She wipes her eyes. "My dad died."
I'm sure my face showed my shock, but it's instinctive. Whatever was going on, that isn’t what I expected. "Oh shit, Til, I’m so sorry."
