Page 125 of Play Nice

“There’s nothing in here except for an empty bottle of vodka,” she says.

“It’s not empty. There’s a little bit left.”

Now, now Leda uncovers her eyes, looks at me. It’s not a good look.

“Does it hurt?” Daphne asks. “You’re already bruising.”

“I think it’s broken.”

Leda sighs. “Do you have health insurance?”

“Yes, I have health insurance.”

“She’s still on Dad’s.”

“If she apologizes, maybe,” Leda says.

“Why are you two here?” I ask, leaning back against the counter, holding the paper towels under my nose to absorb the blood. “How did you know I was—”

“You’re livestreaming,” Daphne says. “You’re on Insta Live. People are calling me, asking if it’s a joke, if you’re okay.”

“I’m not on Live,” I say. “I’m not. I didn’t…I’m not…”

If I say it enough times, maybe it’ll be true.

I move to go get my phone, which I’m pretty sure I left downstairs, but Daphne holds me back.

“Wait,” she says. “I’ll go get it.”

She leaves, and in her absence there’s just me and Leda and the tension between us.

Leda starts opening and closing the kitchen cabinets to have something to do.

After a minute, she says, “Dad saw. I’ve never seen him so upset.”

“Dad saw what?”

“Your Live. Amy showed him,” Leda says. “I mean, you’re clearly inebriated. Stumbling around, muttering to yourself, looking for something that isn’t there. Isn’t here.”

“Stop. Just stop,” Daphne says, rushing up the stairs, setting my phone screen down on the counter. “This can’t be what it is. We love each other. What are we doing? What are you doing, Clio? You’re not okay.”

“No, I’m not. And I’m not allowed to not be okay. I have to be okay. I have to be pretty and fun and together and nice to look at and good to be around. But I’m not any of those things anymore. Because I have this problem. Because I’m having some trouble. And no one believes me—they just think it is me.”

Daphne pushes her hair out of her face, tucks it behind her ears. “I’m sorry.”

“We’re here, aren’t we? Here for you.” Leda says. It’s obvious from her tone that Daffy talked her into this. She didn’t come willingly, didn’t volunteer.

“Please,” Daphne says. “Come back to Dad’s with us. We don’t need to talk about any of this shit right now. Let’s just be together. It can’t all be for nothing.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. I pull the paper towel from my nose. It’s soaked through crimson. I nudge Daphne out of the way so I can throw it in the trash.

“We didn’t suffer all this”—she gestures around—“as kids to grow up and, like, hate each other.”

“Hate?” I ask.

“We should probably take you to urgent care,” Leda says, wincing at the sight of my face.

“What’s that?” Daphne says. She moves toward the saloon doors, pointing.