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“One hour,” I remind them both. “And then the uninvited guest is out on her ass.”
23
JUNE
I should be relieved.
Isn’t this what I’ve wanted the entire time I’ve been here? A familiar face, someone I know, someone I’m comfortable with?
But that’s the thing: I’m not sure I’ve ever been comfortable with Geneva. Sister or not, we were never very close. And yet she’s here.
Which brings up a lot of questions. Questions like, How? Why?Huh?
“Genny,” I mumble for the fifth or sixth time, as though saying her name will help me process her appearance a little better. “You look good.”
She does. There’s a fresh flush on her face that undoes some of the coldness her sunken cheeks give off. She’s not wearing any makeup, but I think it suits her better.
“You think so?” she asks skeptically, as though she’s searching for the insult underneath the compliment. “Thanks. You look good, too. But then, you always did.”
She reaches up and twists a finger through a strand of my hair. She used to do that a lot when we were kids. Back then, though, she used to pull down on the lock of hair so hard that it felt like she was going to rip it off my head from the root. I’m reasonably sure she’s not going to do that today.
Not completely sure, but reasonably.
“This is quite the setup you’ve got here,” she remarks, looking around the room while she releases my hair.
I smooth it back behind my ear and observe her a little closer. Her expression is careful, guarded, and she’s radiating unease. Plus cheap perfume, of course. She’s always radiating cheap perfume.
“I wouldn’t say it’s mine, exactly.”
“Of course not,” Geneva says. “It doesn’t suit you.”
I grit my teeth. She says it like a backhanded insult.It doesn’t suit you—as though somehow I’m not good enough to belong in a house as luxurious, as opulent as this one. I know from experience that calling her out on it would just lead to a long, drawn-out argument that I don’t have the energy for anymore, so I sigh and let it go.
“That brings me to my next question,” Geneva continues. “What the hell are you doing here, Juju?”
“I could ask you the same question,” I retort. “How did you even know I was here?”
“Nuh-uh. You answer my questions first, and then maybe I’ll answer yours.”
I bite back my irritation. It’s always been like this with Geneva. She always has to have the first and last word. She makes the rules and I’m expected to follow them. She and Kolya have a lot in common.
“Fine,” I concede. “What do you want to know?”
“Are you being kept here against your will?”
It’s blunt, and it’s also the most important question she could have possibly asked me. It’s one I’ve been hoping to be asked from every single person who’s walked in here.
But this is not just anyone asking. This is Geneva. My sister. The same sister who used to pull on my hair, and exclude me from her games, and lock me outside the house when she was supposed to be babysitting.
This is the same sister who heckled me at all my dance recitals and stole my first boyfriend just so that she could break his heart three days later. The same sister who told me that Adrian was too damn good for me, right before she pretty much walked out of my life for good.
We’ve had some contact since then, but nothing meaningful. Mostly just obligatory birthday calls. Short coffee meet-ups, attempts at reconciliation that fizzled as soon as they started.
Even after The Accident, she didn’t come to see me. I’d been in the hospital almost a full week before she sent me a bunch of flowers and a cheap card that saidGet Well Soon, Grandmawith theGrandmapart crossed out..When she did finally visit in person, almost three months later, she seemed annoyed that I was annoyed with her.
“You look fine,”she’d told me when I’d mumbled something under my breath.“It can’t have been that bad an accident.”
“The crash was three months ago, Geneva. I’ve healed since then.”
