Page 93 of I Saw You First

“Give me a break,” she says.

I’ve tried to keep my feelings toward my sister to myself on this trip, but I can’t take any more of her holier-than-thou attitude. “You just had to tell him, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says with her nose in the air.

“Of course you fucking do!”

“Wil!” Mom interjects. “What’s going on with you two? And do you have to use that kind of language?”

“Yes, I fucking do,” I say.

“What is going on?” Mom asks again.

“Yes, Wil, why don’t you tell Mom what’s going on?” Kelsey rubs her hand over her belly, like that’s supposed to incite sympathy. She puked the entire flight to Phoenix, apparently, but Andre had splurged for first class, so at least I didn’t have to witness it in my cramped coach seat in row 21.

I have no sympathy for my meddling bitch of a sister.

“Since you seem to know everything, why don’t you?” I snap. “Like you told Dad.”

“Good grief,” Mom says, “you’re behaving like children. And I should have known this had something to do with Jeff.”

I stand up, wrap my towel around my neck, and stare down my sister. “Of course it has something to do with him. You know, Kels, Kaplan hasn’t come out to Dad yet. Are you going to rat him out, too? Or have you already?”

“Go to hell, Wil.” She slides her sunglasses over her eyes.

Mom shakes her head. “I can’t believe you two. This was supposed to be a nice family vacation!”

I turn toward her. “I can’t believe you think you can just fly back here after all these years and expect everyone to have a ‘nice family vacation.’ There’s not much that’s nice about this family, Mom, and it’s about time that you accept that, especially since you’ve worked so hard to take yourself out of it. I love you, and I love that you’ve found happiness in your new life, but next time you plan a nice family vacation, don’t invite me.”

I go into the house, throw my things into my duffle, and call Northwest Airlines to change my flight. At the airport, I ignore every call from Mom, Andre, even Kaplan. I send Kap a text: Flying home tonight. Happy for you and Jordan. He seems like a good one.

Jeremy calls right before I board. “I did it,” he says. “Somehow, I got your transfer to Ridgehill approved. Congratulations; you’ve successfully completed your assistant manager rotation.”

I sink low in my seat. He did it. I don’t know how he did it, or what strings he had to pull, but it’s happening. I’ll be out of the Woodlake store—and away from Abbey and the constant reminders of what we might have had—in two weeks.

A few days later, I’m researching a missing software title before we open, and Abbey’s at the media desk not twenty steps from me. It’s the closest we’ve been in weeks, but she hasn’t seen me yet. She mumbles and hums to herself and at one point, belts out the chorus to “Everybody Hurts” by R.E.M. Maybe she does know I’m within earshot.

“Hey, Mopey Dwarf,” I hear Sam say to her. “We got in those Spice Girls CDs you needed.”

“There was no Mopey Dwarf,” Abbey says. “First of all, why are they the Seven Dwarfs and not Dwarves? English is such a messy language. And I hate that movie. Snow White’s voice is horrible, so high-pitched and annoying. Plus, there’s so much inherent sexism in that story. Ooh, maybe I should write about that for the zine.”

“Life’s too short to be bummed out, Abs. You want me to put a few of these up on the endcap?”

“Oh, would you? You are the very best, Sam Hawkins. There’s no one better than you.”

Sam walks past me as he heads toward the front of the media department with the CDs. “Hey, you gonna tell her before the meeting or are you going to hide out here all morning?”

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I’m going to tell her.”

“Do it now, Jaws.”

Once he’s gone, I walk over to the media desk where Abbey’s still humming. She doesn’t notice me, so I clear my throat, and she turns.

She looks tired, her face thin. She’s lost weight. Her hair is twisted up in a giant claw clip, which I learned early on is a sign that she’s stressed and not about to take shit from anyone or anything, not even her hair. She’s already got her jersey on, but it’s not buttoned, open over a tight, heather gray T-shirt. I’d love to slide my hands inside that jersey, run them across every rib, pull her in close like I did on New Year’s Eve.

I can’t think about New Year’s Eve, not now.

She takes a deep breath and blows it out. “How can I help?” Her tone is falsely cheerful.