Chapter 7
On Friday, my morning started out good. Really good. I woke up to a text from an unknown number, and I immediately knew who it was from.
Grinning, I added Alec to my contacts and texted him back.
Felicity: What if I say no? ;)
But now, things were not so good. I had exactly one hour before Alec arrived, and I was in panic mode.
Yesterday, I’d gone through my closet in search of a très chic ensemble, and after trying on half my wardrobe and feeling absolutely ridiculous for doing so, I opted for my favorite blue romper—cute, comfy, and totally me.
If it wasn’t fashionable enough for a celebrity-studded barbecue, so be it.
I’d never been one to dress up special for a guy, not even Eddie Marks, and while I wanted to look good, I wasn’t going to start just because of who Alec was.
The issue was, I couldn’t find the wedge sandals I’d planned on wearing.
They were the cute, beachy kind that weren’t totally impossible to walk in and should have been at the front of my closet along with my Keds, flats, and flip-flops.
But they were missing, which was strange because they were the only heels I wore on a regular basis.
Not that I wore heels regularly. Mom always said a good pair of pumps was a short girl’s best friend, but I didn’t see the point.
My lack of height was obvious, regardless of a few extra inches, so why bother with uncomfortable footwear?
After digging through my closet and finding everything I’d lost since the start of high school (a jewelry design sketchbook, my pink Delta Nu T-shirt, the swimsuit I’d accused Asha of misplacing) with the exception of my wedges, I tore apart my bedroom apart.
Still, nothing. And with the combination of butterflies quivering in my stomach and the rushing back and forth as I scoured every nook and cranny, I was starting to sweat.
It wasn’t a glistening-forehead situation, but full-on bullets and boob sweat.
Which made me wonder if I had early-onset menopause.
Crap, is that a real thing?
And then, just as I was considering calling Alec to tell him I’d contracted acute hot-mess arrest or sweaty body syndrome and that I was moving to the South Pole indefinitely for treatment, my mom shouted from the kitchen.
“Felicity! I’m off to work.”
I opened my door and called back to her. “Bye, Mom. Have a good day.”
“You too, honey. I love you. Remember I’m staying at Dave’s this weekend! There are leftovers in the fridge.”
The front door slammed, signaling her departure, and that was when it hit me. I knew where my wedges might be. Mom and I had similar-size feet, and sometimes she could squeeze into my shoes. Maybe she borrowed my heels for a date night with Dave and forgot to put them back.
“She better not have stretched them out,” I grumbled as I crossed the house in the direction of her bedroom.
After opening the door and turning on the light, I took a moment to wiggle my toes in the plush throw rug that covered the floor as I admired the space around me.
I absolutely loved my mom’s room. It was glamorous in a way that reminded me of old Hollywood, decorated with a crystal chandelier she rescued from our OC house and the lighted vanity mirror where she did her makeup.
I glanced down at my watch: fifty minutes until Alec would get here.
Another jolt of nerves made my heart flutter, and I jerked toward the closet.
When I opened the door and a stack of boxes toppled out, I heaved a sigh.
Though I only owned a few pairs, Mom had a shoe addiction.
It took me nearly fifteen minutes to go through all the boxes and the plastic organizer hanging from the door, but my wedges were still MIA.
Just as I was about to accept defeat, it occurred to me there could be a few more boxes under the bed.
There weren’t.
What I found instead was both confusing and intriguing.
There, pressed against the baseboard, was a lone guitar case.
That was strange. Mom didn’t have a musical bone in her body, and my dad never played an instrument—at least not to my knowledge.
Which I suppose wasn’t saying much, considering I didn’t know the guy, but still.
If it was his, why had she held on to it for so long?
She’d purged all other remnants of him during the move.
I knew it was none of my business, but I knelt down and slid out the case. I don’t know what I expected to find—probably an actual guitar and other musical items, like a tuner and picks—but the bundle of letters and postcards tied together with ribbon weren’t it.
Maybe they’re old love notes from when my parents first started dating.
I untied the ribbon to examine the letters more closely—
And my name was scrawled across the front in handwriting that I recognized. Impossible… My gaze shot to the left-hand corner where the sender’s address was printed:
Rose Lyon
27 Seawall Street
Galveston, TX 77551
Rose. Rose. It was from ROSE!
I stared at the letter in shock. Neither I nor my mom had heard from her in four years.
And yet here was proof otherwise, tucked away like it didn’t exist. The time stamp was from last year—on my birthday.
I turned the envelope over and pulled out a single piece of stationery.
With trembling hands, I unfolded the page and read:
April 3rd
Dear Felicity,
Today is your birthday. HAPPY 16th! Only two more years until you can legally engage in scandalous bedroom activities and other thrilling adult stuff like voting and applying for credit cards!
I must have subconsciously been thinking about you, because you will never guess what happened.
YOU were in my dream last night! We were at the park Mom used to take us to when we were little, lounging on a blanket with Elle Woods and Bruiser, drinking margaritas and playing Candy Land.
LMAO, isn’t that ridiculous? I remember when you were in love with that movie.
Anyway, it was the best dream I’ve had in ages, all because I got to spend time with you.
I wish I could see you, even if it was only for a day or an hour or a minute, so we could do sister things together again, like paint our nails or argue over who gets to use the bathroom first in the morning.
I know it’s impossible, at least until you graduate, but the thought still makes me happy.
God, I probably sound like a rambling idiot. The point is, I miss you.
In other news, Nicoli tried a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for the first time.
To say he hated it was an understatement.
He thinks American food is disgusting, which doesn’t bother me because it means he does all the cooking!
Also, I’m switching characters for my final summer season.
I’ll be Rapunzel instead of Cinderella, which is way cooler because her costume has this beautiful flowered wig.
I stared at the paragraph. Nicoli tried a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for the first time.
I’ll be Rapunzel. Nicoli and Rapunzel. Sandwiches and flowered wigs.
Rose was talking (well, writing) like she hadn’t been missing for the past four years.
Like we spoke on a regular basis and I knew what was going on in her life.
But who the hell was Nicoli, and what did she mean by switching characters? My whole chest felt tight.
After a minute, I was able to pull myself together and finish the letter.
Again, happy birthday, Fel. I wish I could give you a better gift than these words, but I take comfort in the fact that Mom will spoil you rotten. I heart you more than Starburst and salsa.
xoxo,
Rose
“Heart you more than Cool Ranch and blueberry shakes,” I whispered out of habit.
A tear rolled off the tip of my nose before I realized I was crying.
Not monster, body-racking sobs, but a silent stream of tears.
When another drop fell, hitting the page and making the blue ink bloom beneath it, I wiped my eyes before any more of Rose’s words could be ruined.
She might not have thought so, but her letter was more than a gift.
It was hope. The kind of hope I’d searched for when I’d stared up at her paper hearts, praying she’d come home.
But along with hope, a fire ignited inside me. Why hadn’t I seen these letters before now? If Rose missed me, if she wanted to be part of my life the way her letter suggested, then why did she stay away? And why hadn’t she contacted me in some other way?
I plucked the bundle of letters out of the guitar case and shuffled through them.
Each one was from her, the oldest dating back to a month after she left.
There must have been more than fifty pieces of mail.
Some were fat envelopes, while others were colorful postcards, but they were all addressed to me.
It didn’t take me long to notice every one had been sent from someplace different: Mexico, Jamaica, Brazil, even one from Italy!
It was as if Rose was constantly on the move, unable to settle down.
Suddenly, I felt as if I’d been awake for weeks.
There was something exhaustingly sad about finding these letters, and I felt like the universe was intentionally poking the bruises of my heart.
Leaving the bundle and the guitar case of the floor, I went back to my room for my phone and called Asha.
My call went to voice mail, so I left her a message.
“Hey, it’s me. I know you said you had plans, but you need to get over here. It’s an emergency. Bring Boomer.”
***