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Her brain works hard to find an excuse. “You can’t come. It’s…Margot’s birthday. Girls only. Sorry.”
“Fine by me.” I flurry my hand toward the door. “Have a nice night. Don’t stay out too late.”
Her brow creases. “You’re staying here?”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?” My sudden obedience throws her.
“Yes.” She shakes her head. “I’ve left some lasagna on the stove. You can reheat it in the microwave. Don’t forget the damp paper towel or it’ll dry up.”
I fight my smile. Even when she’s trying to escape me, she cares. It’s a tiny crumb I greedily accept.
“Have a good night, Tally Girl.” I fold my arms, leaning against the banister as I wait for her to leave.
She watches me suspiciously. Rightly so. I know where she’s going, and I’ll be right behind her.
“Stay out of trouble,” she warns.
Unlikely.
And then she’s gone, flaming curls bouncing as she stomps down the path toward a waiting cab, leaving me to my own devices. My phone rings again and I click the side button, ending the call without even glancing at the screen. It’s either my mother, Howard, or Vanessa, none of whom I have the time for. All my attention is on the little vixen who’s speeding away into the sunset. I’ll give her a head start.
We won’t get anywhere if she continues to avoid me like a contagious rash.
The house is quiet except for the low hum of the AC. I amble through the rooms, whistling one of songs. The tune bounces off the bare walls. Upstairs, I peek into her “new bedroom” but don’t step inside. She’s the only woman I’ve ever shared a bed with, and yet the idea of stepping into this room feels wrong. Her vanilla body spray lingers in the air. I inhale deeply, my eyes drifting closed with the familiar scent. Does she still buy it from the drugstore? I remember buying her a fancy eau de parfum, the bottle shaped like a stiletto. She used it twice before reverting to the same brand of body spray she’s been using since she was sixteen.
My feet carry me to the end of the corridor.
The hinges creak as I slowly push inside the main bedroom. Our bedroom. I never expected to be gone for so long, but as the weeks turned into months with no contact, I lost hope we’d ever reunite. A small part of me must’ve known, though, because I refused to rent an apartment, and I quickly became a VIP member at The Hermitage Hotel in Nashville when I wasn’t traveling.
Musty air greets me. The room is stuffy; the bedsheets rumpled. When was the last time she slept in here? It’s a large room, with a navy chaise longue, Alaskan king bed, walk-in closet, and two dressers on either side of our respective sides of the bed. Her dresser appears untouched, a thick coating of dust building. I smirk when I see three bottles of her body spray. She panic buys it in bulk, worried they’ll discontinue it one day.
Then my heart cracks in two.
Her wedding band sits in the small jewelry dish my mom bought her.
It’s a simple silver ring—it was all I could afford at eighteen. I knew she wasn’t wearing it, but seeing it abandoned like this, forgotten, is another brick in the wall between us.
When Vance Records first took an interest in me, I promised to buy her a huge diamond ring if they offered me a deal. I remember the way she hugged her left hand protectively to her chest and said “This is the ring I want to be buried with. You’ll have to surgically remove it from my finger if you want to replace it.”
A dink sounds as I flick the worn silver band.
Seems like it didn’t take much effort at all to have it removed.
A sickening realization smacks me in the face. Does she ever wear it? Or does she take it off when she goes out? Like tonight.
I siphon what little energy I have, shower and change my clothes, before jumping in a cab. There are only a few places in Iris Meadows she’d hang out with the girls, and I’m long overdue a visit.
TWELVE
TALIA
“Jeez Louise, Tals. Thirsty much?” Harriet gawks.
I gulp down the last of my whiskey sour, the frothy sweet liquid tickling my throat. Once the glass is empty, I slam my palm on the table, gasping dramatically, wiping my mouth with the inside of my wrist. “Shit, that’s good.”
“Sooo…” Margot pushes her whiskey sour in my direction like a sacrificial lamb. Fair, I’m acting a tad demonic. “Tate’s moved back in?”
“No.” A trickle of condensation slides over my fingers. “Or yes. Temporarily. Until he’s feeling better.”
