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If they could be that to each other again after all this time . . . after all that had happened.
It still made her angry that Rose left, even though deep down she knew it wasn’t Rose’s fault. But now the anger didn’t feel so visceral. It had begun to fade when Rose confessed how dire things had been for her. At the time, Poppy hadn’t seen it—they’d been children, after all—and that added to her guilt. She wasn’t the one Rose leaned on; instead Maggie had been there to help Rose survive.
Back then, Poppy had been trying so hard to please her father, she’d often taken his side and used her father’s taunts as sage advice. “If you’d just do what he wants... If you’d say what he wants you to say... If only you’d try harder...” Always she’d end with “he’d stop.”
The pain flared inside her for being so naïve.
Until her father turned on her and she wanted Rose there to tell her it wasn’t her fault.
Poppy tried to think if she’d ever uttered those words to Rose. She hoped she had at least once, though she wished now she’d said it every time.
It was no consolation to think she’d been just a child. She’d made mistakes.
Rose had paid the price for shielding Poppy as long as she could.
And of course there was her mom, who tried in her own way to protect them but ultimately was too afraid to save them.
She understood all too well because when Rose moved intoher own place and offered to take her in, Poppy found herself too afraid to face his wrath if she left and he found her again.
They’d all lived in survival mode, just trying to get through each day without an incident.
She was trying to understand and accept what happened to all of them, but it was so hard.
“Poppy,” Rose called through the door, snapping Poppy out of her dark thoughts. “Hurry up. I’ll be waiting for you downstairs.”
Tonight was a chance to feel and be normal.
She went to her closet and pulled out a black sleeveless dress with a ruffled skirt, and a pair of flats. She quickly discarded her oversized black sweater, jeans, socks, and combat boots. She used to love wearing colors. Until everything in her life turned dark.
She slipped on the dress, slid her feet into the shoes, and rushed into her bathroom to do something with her hair. Mostly, she wore it down, hanging limp. Not tonight. Instead, she brushed it out, then twisted it into a loose bun, leaving a few of the layered strands to frame her face.
She pulled open a drawer she hadn’t gone into in years and found her old makeup. She dusted on some pink blush to give her pale face some color. She already had black eyeliner and mascara, but added two shades of purple shadow to brighten her hazel eyes, and finished the look with a sweep of pink-tinted lip gloss.
She stepped back and looked at herself in the mirror, seeing a glimpse of the girl she used to be. The black hair really didn’tdo anything for her, except make a statement about how she felt on the inside, and make her outside look pale and wan.
She needed to take better care of herself.
She needed to start caring again.
She wasn’t sure if she knew how to do that anymore. She had to start somewhere, and tonight she was going to try to have a good time—for Maggie, for Rose, and for herself.
And, she thought a bit ruefully, black was always chic.
But a dress, fixing her hair, and some makeup didn’t erase the truth. Poppy was still hiding in her anger and misery. And still holding on to her secret.
