Chapter Seventeen #2
back home and gorge herself on a take-out bucket of KFC. How she could probably do it, and no one would miss her.
But there was something about cutting contact that felt like—failing. As if she couldn’t even hack it as a daughter, as if
she was so bad at something most people didn’t have to work at that she gave it up. Threw in the towel.
Every time the thought crossed her mind, she pushed it aside, flinching away from it, refusing to look at it dead-on. She
always concluded she just needed to try harder. After all, Poppy Peterson was no quitter.
Rosaline lifted their joined hands and brushed a whisper of a kiss against Poppy’s knuckles. “It’s not giving up if you were
never given a chance. If you’ve given it your all. If walking away is going to save you your sanity.”
Poppy scrunched her eyes shut. “I just feel like—like no matter how hard I try, nothing I do is ever enough. Never good enough.”
That she wasn’t good enough and never would be.
“That feeling’s the worst,” Rosaline murmured. “Turns you into your own worst enemy after a while.”
Poppy opened her eyes. “You feel like that?”
Rosaline scoffed softly. “Only almost every day of my life.”
Not that she didn’t believe her, but it was hard for Poppy to wrap her head around someone as successful as Rosaline feeling
like she wasn’t good enough.
She must’ve read the confusion on Poppy’s face because her mouth curved up in a semblance of a smile that didn’t come close to reaching her eyes. “My parents love me. I’ve never doubted that, but . . . they pity me too, and that’s . . . it’s a hard pill to swallow.”
“Pity you?” Poppy frowned. “For what?”
Rosaline seesawed her head from side to side. “You asked me once what their thing was. I said exceptionality, which I’m sure sounds strange, but it’s true. My parents are both amazing artists, top of their
respective fields, and it was really important to them that my sisters and I find our niche, the thing that we’re best at.
My sisters turned out to be wunderkinds. I mean, Helen picked up a cello when she was three and her teacher declared her a
musical prodigy. She could read sheet music before she could read letters. Bianca had her first solo art exhibition in the
city when she was eight. Whereas I was still drawing stick figures and butchering ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ on the piano when I was ten.”
“I think your sisters are the exception, not the rule,” Poppy said gently.
Rosaline’s laughter had an edge to it that made her chest ache. “Not in my family. If at first you don’t succeed, move on,
and find what you do excel at. It didn’t matter if I enjoyed something, if I wasn’t the best at it, it was time to throw in
the towel. I got a bronze medal in gymnastics and the next week my mom pulled me out and enrolled me in a competitive swim
program instead. I came in second place in the county spelling bee and on the drive home my dad suggested I look into joining
mathletes. I spent my entire childhood and adolescence bouncing from one sport and club and instrument to the next at my parents’
behest, trying and failing to find the thing I was exceptional at.” Rosaline shrugged. “I never found it.”
“You did,” Poppy argued. “People don’t usually know the names of their favorite celebrities’ publicists, but you’re Lyric Adair’s publicity manager and everyone knows it. You’re the best in the business. You’re Rosaline freaking Sinclair. You’re a legend.”
“But there’s not really a tangible way of measuring success in this industry that isn’t predicated on your client’s success.
In my parents’ eyes, Lyric is exceptional. She’s the talent. I’m support staff. And there’s nothing exceptional about being
a glorified personal assistant.”
She sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth. “They seriously called you that?”
There wasn’t a damn thing wrong with being a personal assistant. But that’s not what Rosaline was.
“Not in so many words. But . . . it’s their tone, you know? The way they gush over Helen and Bianca’s achievements, the way
they always have. But how, when I share some bit of good news, I get placating smiles and a That’s nice, honey or Good for Lyric.” Rosaline stared down at their joined hands. “Like I said, they love me. I’ve never doubted that. But I’ve always known that
they wanted me to be . . . more. And I just don’t have more in me. I’m not special. I’m not talented. But if supporting Lyric and helping her take back control of her life and making
sure she’s happy is my life’s greatest achievement, I’ll have no regrets. It would just be nice if my parents realized I don’t
need my own star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame to be happy.”
“You’re wrong.”
Rosaline looked up and frowned.
“Most twenty-six-year-olds wouldn’t help a sixteen-year-old stranger file for emancipation from their shitty parents, famous pop star or not.
They wouldn’t move said sixteen-year-old in with them and practically adopt them,” Poppy said.
“It’s so clear that you’d do anything for Lyric.
Most people aren’t that selfless, and I don’t think most people love like that.
Not really. Not unconditionally.” People might say they did, but when it really came down to it, when their backs were pressed against a wall, the truth would come out, and most people would falter in their affections.
Even parents, in Poppy’s experience, didn’t always love the way they were supposed to.
“Fuck talent. I think that makes you special. I think that makes you exceptional.”
Rosaline sniffed hard and let out a wet-sounding laugh as she blinked fast, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Jesus, Poppy.
You’re going to make me cry.”
“Sorry.” She wasn’t really. Not for saying what Rosaline so clearly needed to hear.
“Don’t be.” Rosaline shook her head. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re exceptional too.”
Poppy snorted. Exceptionally talented at fucking up and falling short, maybe. “Thanks.”
Rosaline scowled. “I’m serious. Haven’t you learned by now that I’m not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean?”
She squirmed a little. “I guess that’s true.”
“You guess.” Rosaline rolled her eyes but there was a smile playing at the corners of her mouth that belied her irritation. “I see how
you are with Curran. The way you’d do anything for him. It’s no different than how I am with Lyric. And it doesn’t stop there.
Screw what your mother thinks, what you did on that carpet was nothing short of amazing. You have such a big heart, and if
your parents have their heads buried so far up their asses that they can’t see what’s right in front of them, screw them.
So what if you weren’t a part of their plan? I didn’t see you coming, but I’m so glad you did, Poppy.”
She pinched her eyes shut. “I’m glad too.”
Rosaline squeezed her hand. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“I’m not crying.” She was definitely crying. “You’re crying.”
Rosaline laughed. “Yeah. Little bit.”
Poppy dragged in a ragged breath and opened her eyes. “You’re staying with your parents, right?”
Her lips twisted and she nodded. “I thought about renting a place, but it seemed silly. But they turned my old room into storage
for my mom’s art supplies, so I have to crash with Helen in her room. It’s only been a day and I’m beginning to regret my
choice.”
“You could just stay here. Spare me from playing third wheel to Lyric and Cash.”
“I don’t know, Poppy.” Rosaline gave her a sly, sidelong look. “Where would I sleep?”
Poppy wiggled closer and tossed a leg over Rosaline’s. “In here, with me. Obviously.”
“Presumptuous.” Her lips twitched. “Curran won’t mind?”
“It’s a little late for him to try to protect my long-gone virtue, I think.”
She pinched Poppy’s side, making her squeal. “You know what I meant.”
Poppy laughed. “No, he won’t care. Promise.”
“Hm, I suppose it would be nice not having to make the drive over here every day,” she mused. “Would save me money on gas,
at least.”
“Mm, frugality.” Poppy sighed dreamily. “So romantic.”
Rosaline’s fingers traced the line of Poppy’s jaw, her hand snaking into Poppy’s hair, gripping the back of her head and tilting
her just so, their mouths slotting together perfectly. After a moment, Rosaline’s lips curved against hers, smiling into the
kiss.
“Is that a yes?” Poppy asked, fingers curling into the hem of Rosaline’s sweater.
“Yeah, Poppy.” She beamed. “It’s a yes.”