Page 80 of Gilt

“What the hell do you …” she stops as soon as she sees me. “Oh my God, darling.”

Marion throws her arms around my shoulders and gives me the perfect hug. When you see moms and daughters in movies and on TV, this is what it looks like. At least that’s the closest approximation to maternal affection I’ve ever known. Vivian Von Essen isn’t known for warm hugs.

“I didn’t know you were back.”

“I just got in,” I told her. “Josie gave me a ride.”

“Emma’s just going to crash with us if that’s okay.”

“Your daddy knows?” Marion asks. But even as she begins her interrogation, she hauls me inside. A few minutes later, she’s got omelets cooking on the stovetop. “Okay, now that I don’t have a knife in hand, spill. Why are you staying at our house?”

“If it’s not okay,” I begin, but she holds up a hand, showcasing long, teal nails that undoubtedly match her costume for the latest show she’s dancing in.

“You’re always welcome in this house. But I saw how you hesitated when I asked about your daddy.”

“We had a fight before the accident,” I admit to her, “and things got ugly. Then Mom wanted me in Palm Springs… ”

As much as I love Marion Deckard, I don’t want to go into more details about the shit sandwich life’s been feeding me of late.

“He’s probably worried about you.”

“Yeah, well…” I press my fingertips into the tines of the fork she sat out on the bar. “Trust me, he doesn’t expect me to come home.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

I shake my head. I’m just about all talked out. The talking never seems to cease. First, everyone wanted me to talk about my parents’ divorce. How was I feeling? Who did I want to live with? Then mom got remarried and I had to talk about her new husband. Was I excited? Did I like him? Where did I want to live again? At the time, I didn’t have anything to say about him. That’s certainly changed. But nothing was worse than when they started pleading with me to talk about Becca. Share what happened that night. Share your favorite memories of her. Share how you’re feeling. No one wants to know when all you feel is numb.

At least when the police came around and started asking me to talk about Nathaniel West’s murder they wanted facts, not emotions. They didn’t need to know if I was sad or happy or scared. They just wanted a play-by-play. After tonight and the accident last month, there are going to be a lot more things for people to ask me about. I need to gather strength for the oncoming inquisition.

Marion shoves the carton of eggs into the overly crowded refrigerator and closes the door. Leaning against it, she stares me down. “Do you feel safe there?” One bad choice couldn’t change a lifetime of feeling at home, right? But when I open my mouth, all that comes out is a small “no.”

“You stay here as long as you need.” She doesn’t press me for further information. There’s no threatening to call the police. No after-school special drill about talking with adults you trust. She’s known too many men in this town not to read between the lines.

Josie reappears from the bathroom and takes the barstool next to mine. “That smells good.” She peeks past her mother to the omelet pan.

“You better make one yourself if you want one.”

“Oh, I see, Emma gets spoiled,” she teases as she heads to the fridge. Pretty soon she’s standing next to her mom, tending her own pan. Marion begins to hum, and Josie jumps in, singing the lyrics of what sounds suspiciously like a Taylor Swift song.

Marion whirls around and drops the omelet on my plate with the skilled ease of someone who lives primarily on eggs. I’ve never said no to her signature dish. Then again, I’ve never been offered anything else.

Turning around, she bumps her hip against her daughter’s, and the two continue their duet while I take small bites. Between the buttery smell permeating the kitchen and the easy atmosphere, my appetite returns.

I try to help with dishes, but she shoos me away. Josie excuses herself to bed, but I linger in the small living room, staring at an old photo of me with Josie and Becca. Marion had taken it at some little carnival that had popped up in a grocery store parking lot. We had just come off the spinning cups, and we were still giggling and falling all over each other out of dizziness. One simple snap of the lens and she’d managed to capture pure happiness.

“I miss her every day,” Marion says quietly.

I nod, my mouth too dry to agree with her. Somehow given Hans’ revelation, I miss her even more. She feels farther from me than ever. Time is supposed to heal grief, and instead, it seems to keep finding new ways to open up the wound.

“Did she ever talk to you about a boy?” Boy is definitely the wrong word, but saying anything else might give away the situation. I don’t give a crap what happens to Hans, long may he burn in hell, but I do care about how people remember my sister, especially about how I remember her.

“I wish.” Marion moves beside me and shakes her head sadly. She wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me in close. “But getting a Southerly girl to talk is a bit of a challenge.”

She might be right, but no one wants to hear what I have to tell.

“I met her boyfriend.” My stomach clenches on the white lie. “Or at least some guy who claims he’d…you know.”

Marion pulls a few inches back and bites her lip guiltily. “I did take her to the doctor to get on birth control.”