Chapter 5 – Rhiannon
Seven months later...
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My sister Eden stares at the box of cereal that I’ve placed on the table, her cute, button nose that matches mine wrinkling in disgust.
“I can’t eat that,” she says flatly, her tone so serious it’s almost funny.
I slam the box onto the wobbly kitchen table, the impact sending our plastic bowls and spoons clattering.
The legs creak dangerously, and for a fleeting second, I wish the whole thing would collapse so that Gabriel would finally fix it permanently—or, better yet, so we could replace it with something that isn’t broken.
“Why not?” I say, exasperated.
Eden shrugs, brushing her soft, auburn hair over one shoulder.
“Red dye 40.”
Of fucking course. Another item to add to Eden’s ever-growing list of forbidden foods.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to keep my frustration in check and not say what I really want to, which is: this is all that we can afford right now!
Instead, I muster up my most soothing voice and say, “Eden, this is the only cereal we have until I go grocery shopping again next week. We don’t have anything else for you to eat for breakfast.”
She gives me a faint smile, like my irritation rolls off her without a care and she can’t sense how frustrated I am.
“That’s fine. I just won’t eat breakfast today.
” She grabs her backpack and slings it over her shoulder before leaning down to give me a quick hug.
“I love you, sis. I’ll see you after school.
Oh, and I’m going to check the dormitory’s lost-and-found later.
Maybe I can snag a table that we can fix up. This one’s totally busted.”
No shit.
Her nonchalance is almost admirable. Oh, to be young again without any worries.
I don’t say anything as I watch her head out the door, earbuds already in, backpack slung over one shoulder like she’s got the whole world figured out.
I hope she does. At least one of the Carpenter’s should.
The train ride from our small town in Connecticut to NYU will take nearly two hours, but she doesn’t seem to care that she’s doing it on an empty stomach.
Eden’s in her freshman year, studying interior design with big dreams of building her own furniture line one day. And even though she swears she’s happy—I’ve heard it enough times to believe she means it—I still can’t help second-guessing everything I do.
Every choice I make feels like it could be the one that tips the scale between success and failure for her. And today, my latest excuse for self-doubt in this whole big-sister-slash-substitute-parent experiment comes in the form of accidentally buying food on her forbidden list.
I pour myself a bowl of the cereal she refuses to eat, the bright colors swirling into the milk creating a muted rainbow of lost hope and wasted money. As I shovel a spoonful into my mouth, I laugh at the absurdity of what’s become my life and the things that I now care about.
There’s only a nine-year age gap between Eden and me, but most days, I feel more like her mother than her older sister.
It’s been that way since our brother Gabriel, and I became her guardians immediately after our parents passed away unexpectedly seven years ago.
And though it’s come with its challenges, I wouldn’t want anyone else stepping into that role for her but us.
I shovel another spoonful of cereal into my mouth and read the back of the off-brand cereal box. This company is so desperate for loyal buyers, it includes a fortune for you to read each day of the week. And if it takes you more than a week to eat it, you get the same fortune every Monday.
My eyes scan to Wednesday where I read what my poisonous cereal full of red dye 40 has in store for me today:
‘A new business opportunity will find its way to you soon,’ is printed in bold lettering.
I shove the box aside with a sharp scoff. The absolute last thing that I need right now is another job to add to my packed schedule.
I’m already juggling multiple part-time gigs just to keep the lights on in our childhood home, pay the mortgage, and cover most of Eden’s college tuition so that she can graduate debt free.
Our older brother Gabriel’s recent uptick in construction work for the city has allowed me to scale back on my hours at the swanky Manhattan hotel I clean part time, but I’m still stretched impossibly thin most days.
Sure, I’ve always found a strange comfort in keeping my schedule full. It feels good to contribute, to know that Eden will graduate with no student loan debt, and a childhood full of memories, but even I have a limit. I barely have a sliver of time for myself, let alone any sort of social life.
The last time I let loose and did something fun was seven months ago when I met up with Leo in NYC for my birthday and had a wild, one night stand with a stranger.
Adding a fifth job to the chaos? Not happening.
Gabriel enters the kitchen while I’m rinsing out my bowl, watching with humor at the neon colors filling the sink drain.
“It looks like a troll threw up in there.”
I snort. “Red dye number 40, apparently.”
His brows raise like he has no idea what I’m talking about and to be fair, the guy eats frozen waffles and pop tarts for breakfast most mornings.
“Did Eden already leave for school?”
“Yep, just a few minutes ago.”
“Are you working at the hotel today?”
“Unfortunately.” I smooth down the stiff uniform I’m wearing. It’s one that makes me feel like a knockoff Jennifer Lopez in Maid in Manhattan. Except I’d never be caught trying on the expensive furs of the guests who stay at the wealthy hotel where I work. Keywords: I wouldn’t get caught
Also, I’d never fall in love with a rich, heir-to-a-dynasty guy like Christopher Marshall. I think we can all agree that he was the worst in that movie and unfortunately, that’s been my experience with most of the wealthy people I’ve encountered during their stays at the hotel where I work.
Gabriel nods, sipping his coffee. “One day you’ll be able to quit.”
Right. That’s hardly believable.
“How’s the budget look?”
“Rough.”
He sighs and drags a hand through his messy, dark brown hair. He may only be a year older than me, but I can see the stress of the last few years in the fine lines around his hazel eyes and the weight that he carries on his shoulders.
“Should we take another look tonight? See if there’s anywhere else that we can cut back?”
We’ve already cut out all extra spending. Subscriptions? Cancelled. Name brand food? Don’t buy it. Friday nights out drinking with friends? Don’t know them.
But I nod and force a smile, because while I’d love to quit my job at the hotel today, I know Gabriel’s also miserable working in construction for a boss who refuses to promote him and sticks him on the worst projects in the city. We’re doing what we must do to survive, and we both know it.
“Sure, we can do that.”
“Alright. See you tonight. Stay safe on your commute,” he says with a smile.
“You too,” I respond, trying not to think about him weaving through congested traffic on his motorcycle.
Gabriel’s a big guy, more than capable of handling himself in the chaos of New York City life. But he rides a chrome Harley Davidson Cruiser—a sleek beast of a motorcycle that he’d saved up to buy when he was just eighteen years old and couldn’t part with after our parents passed away.
It’s the same one that his ex-wife almost made him give up when they first married. And not because she thought it wasn’t safe, but because she didn’t like the attention it seemed to attract from other women around town.
The thought of him weaving through the gridlock of overcrowded city streets during rush hour has always made my stomach churn. We’ve already lost our parents; I don’t want to lose any more family.
But I understand the need for an outlet, for those fleeting moments where your brain shuts off and you let go. That seems to be what Gabriel gets from riding these days.
He lifts his mug in a casual wave as I head out the door to my trusty car. Trusty, but definitely not glamorous. It’s a 2004, an antique now, the black paint is peeling, and the brakes let out an embarrassing squeal every time I put it in reverse.
Those are on my list to have Gabriel fix but when he gets home after dark, exhausted and hungry, I don’t want to add one more thing to his list of to-dos.
Still, the car is mine—and more importantly, it’s paid off.
My dad had always said that the most valuable vehicle is the one you own outright.
I don’t care that my insurance appraised it at less than one grand value, that it leaks oil all over our driveway, or that the rust on the undercarriage is threatening to win its life-long battle with the streets of Brookhaven.
It gets me where I need to go, and that’s enough.
Especially on days like today when I can’t wait for the train.
I start the engine and make my way toward the city, heading to the Manhattan-based hotel where I occasionally work as cleaning staff on Wednesdays and Fridays.
I hate this job, but not because I think that I’m above it. Cleaning is one of the most vital and underappreciated professions out there, and I have endless respect for those who do it full-time. My problem is the thanklessness of it all.
No one notices how the sheets are folded just so, the meticulous attention to wiping down appliances and vacuuming floors, or the small gesture of a mint left on their pillow.
It all feels impersonal since there’s no human interaction, a stark contrast to the second job waiting for me later in the day, the one that I went to school for and really enjoy.
After an hour and a half commute and six hours straight of scrubbing crystal-adorned apartments and high-end guest rooms, I’m finally racing back to my house in Connecticut.