Chapter 2
Karla
“I don’t need a freaking nanny,” I said to Dad as he walked into my room.
He always came into my room late at night, normally after he spent too many hours at work, to check in on me.
Most of the time, I pretended to be sleeping, but after spending the day with Mom, I felt that the least I could do was stay up late to tell my father how he was ruining my life.
Mom would’ve never let Dad hire a nanny.
She would’ve been there, involved in every area of my and Lorelai’s lives.
Then again, if Mom was still alive, Dad would’ve still been involved, too.
It was no secret that the accident changed everything when it came to our family’s dynamics.
Based on his grumpy exterior, one would’ve thought that my father was always built on huffs and puffs and office paperwork, but that wasn’t how he’d always been.
Greyson East used to be Father of the Year, repeatedly. He was my best friend. There was never a day when he wasn’t sharing mindless information with me about anything and everything. I’d share the most random facts with him, too, and we’d laugh for hours.
We’d read the same books.
We’d eat the same foods.
I was a mini version of my father, and there was a time in my life when all I wanted to do was grow up and be as kind, funny, and driven as he was.
He was the CEO of EastHouse Whiskey, a brand that his father, my grandfather, created many years ago.
Grandpa wasn’t someone who was in my life much.
Mom always said that was a blessing, because he wasn’t a good man.
Dad didn’t talk about his father much, but once, before Grandpa passed away, I overheard them fighting in Dad’s study.
I walked in to see Grandpa shoving my dad, but Dad never hit him back.
After that day, I told Mom what happened, and she forbade Grandpa from ever coming over again.
I guessed Dad got hit a lot as a kid, and it made me sad that even in adulthood, he still let his own father hurt him.
That was one thing about my father that he didn’t inherit from his own—he would’ve never laid a finger on another human being, no matter what.
Still, he was one of the grumpiest humans alive. I was the second-grumpiest. I guess that was something new I inherited from Dad after the accident. My bad attitude.
Dad stood in the doorway of my bedroom and crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s late. You should be sleeping.”
“I don’t need a nanny,” I repeated, noting how he skipped over my first complaint. He was a professional at avoiding real issues. It was probably why he worked so much. You couldn’t overthink your own dark thoughts if you clogged your mind with other bullshit.
“Yes,” he said sternly, “you do. We hired a new woman named Eleanor who will be here tomorrow morning to start. You will respect her.”
The hell I will.
If I didn’t respect myself, why in the heck would I respect others? That seemed unfair.
I rolled my eyes.
He grimaced.
Our normal exchange.
“I hate you,” I blurted out. I didn’t know if I meant those words or not. It depended mostly on the day and the hour. Yet that night, at that hour, hate felt right.
“I love you,” he replied. He always said that whenever I told him I hated him. I wished he’d tell the truth and say how he hated me, too. I was the reason his wife was dead, after all.
Gosh, Mom, I need you tonight.
Those thoughts raced through my brain more than I wanted them to. I figured they’d be there forever, too. A daughter always needed her mother—no matter how much time had passed by.
“Now, it’s time for sleep,” Dad said. “Take off your headphones, please, and go to bed.”
I straightened my headphones over my ears and cocked an eyebrow as I crossed my arms. “Whatever, Dad. Night.” He started in my direction to kiss my forehead, but I turned my back toward him instantly and buried myself under my blankets.
“Turn off the light,” I ordered. His footsteps stopped for a moment before he headed back toward my bedroom door.
He shut off the light switch, said good night, and closed the door.
Some nights, when he thought I was sleeping and he’d kiss my forehead, I’d start to cry the moment he left my room.
His forehead kisses reminded me of Mom’s.
After he was gone, I pulled the covers off from over me.
I stared up at the ceiling fan, spinning in the darkness.
There wasn’t much to look at in my bedroom.
All my walls were bare of posters and photographs.
I took everything down after Mom passed away.
I didn’t want to sit in a bedroom filled with life when my own mind felt like death.
The blank walls matched my blank heart.
I took a few deep inhalations before pulling myself up from my bed.
I walked over to my closet door, which had “Do Not Enter” caution tape all over it.
That space was off-limits to any and everyone except for me.
I sat inside of that space each night, too, because it was the closest I could feel to Mom outside of her tombstone.
As I opened the door, I flipped on the string lights that I’d hung throughout the closet.
And in the space? Everything that was my mother.
It smelled like lavender and roses from the candles I set up, Mom’s favorite scents.
Hanging on the clothes rod were her favorite pieces of clothing.
On a little table, her favorite perfume and her pieces of jewelry.
Sitting beside those items was a stack of notebooks.
That closet was my own personal safe haven—my workspace, where I’d work on my manuscripts.
I loved writing, and I got that love of the written word from Mom.
She loved words almost as much as she loved her family—which was a lot.
One of my first memories was her reading me storybooks before I fell asleep.
I’d watched her do the same with Lorelai, too.
Now no one read my sister stories. That was pretty sad to think about.
Most of my thoughts were pretty sad to think about.
I sat down on the floor. I breathed in Mom’s favorite sweater, slid it over my shoulders, and snuggled up into it.
I lay down on the floor, which only had a sleeping bag as padding, and I hit play on my cell phone.
Within seconds, my headphones filled with the sound of Mom’s voice.
It was all I listened to—old video clips of Mom’s laugh.
Her giggles. Her voice. They were all kinds of videos that we’d recorded over the years.
Clips of us going on walks, at parks, just being silly in our house.
Videos of her hosting pool parties in the summer.
“I miss you,” I cried. I closed my eyes and placed the neckline of the sweater over my nose.
I breathed it in. “I miss you,” I repeated, listening to her voice echo through my soul.
“I miss you,” I swore before my eyes drifted closed, and I found myself falling asleep to the sounds of my favorite angel.
That is, if heaven were real.
I still wasn’t sold on the concept of heaven, but sometimes I considered it only because it meant that maybe one day I’d see her again.
And if I saw her again? I’d give her the biggest hug and never let go.
* * *
Morning came too soon, and I woke up grouchy. That wasn’t shocking. I dreaded the morning—it meant I had to be forced to face another day. That morning was even worse, seeing as how there was a new nanny in town.
Grandma Claire called me repeatedly, ordering me to hurry up to the dining room for breakfast. My grandmother lived a few blocks away, and when we were missing a nanny, she showed up each morning to help get Lorelai and me off to school.
That was one of the reasons Dad said Lorelai and I needed a nanny: Grandma Claire ran a charity and couldn’t be around all the time.
I ignored her every time she called out to me, mainly because I didn’t want to listen. I had a bad attitude. She should’ve been used to being ignored by now.
After my morning shower that always took me way longer than it should’ve, I dried off, tossed on my black outfit, and placed my wet, dangly hair in front of my face, trying my hardest to hide my scars.
I looked at myself in the mirror and felt so hideous.
I forgot what beauty looked like whenever I stared at myself. It was no wonder the kids at school called me “Hunchback” and “Scarface.” I was probably the ugliest person on the planet.
Some days I hated my thoughts more than others. I was so mean to myself. My therapist said I needed to start reciting positive affirmations when I looked in the mirror, but my brain hadn’t figured out how to do that yet.
I wondered if I’d ever learn how to be nicer to myself.
When I picked up my phone, I saw I had a text message from Uncle Landon, as usual.
One thing about him was that he was consistent about checking in on me every day since the accident.
Even though he wasn’t in town a lot, because he was a big shot Hollywood actor, there wasn’t a second I didn’t feel his love.
And he always asked me the same thing with every morning message.
Landon: Good morning, my lovely niece. How’s your heart?
I looked at his words and let them swirl in my mind a bit before I texted him back.
Uncle Landon told me that, when he was a kid, a very important person in his life would always ask him the same thing when he was struggling.
He said the heart didn’t have to be happy or joyful, but as long as it was still beating, then that was good enough.
He never pressured me to be happy—he just hoped I was still here with him.
I knew Uncle Landon’s uncle, Lance, died by suicide.
I didn’t want him to worry about me doing the same thing.
Sometimes, though, I wondered what it would be like if I wasn’t around anymore.
I wondered if my family would be better off without my struggles with sadness.
I texted Uncle Landon back.