Chapter Seven Bianca
Chapter Seven
Bianca
Bianca opened one eye as the sunlight crept through the sheer curtains and unforgivingly struck her face, causing her to squint.
She winced, groaned, and pulled the covers over her head, trying to hide from the intrusive sunlight.
Too late. There was no escaping it. Her head throbbed like a distant drum, dull but persistent.
She wasn’t ready to face the morning, not with this hangover.
Laughter trickled in from the kitchen—light, familiar, high-pitched giggles.
She sat up slowly, the room tilting for a moment before settling. “Shit,” she muttered to herself, her voice hoarse from last night’s shenanigans. “Are the girls here already?”
The last thing she needed was Mila seeing her like this—disheveled, groggy, still smelling faintly of last night’s tequila.
She had hoped for more time to collect herself, scrub her conscience clean a bit, and pull it together before Mila arrived.
The tension between them was already thick enough.
Mila still hadn’t forgiven her. And maybe she never would.
That laugh was definitely Mila’s.
Bianca dragged herself out of bed and stumbled toward the bathroom, flicking on the light.
Her reflection stared back at her—mascara smudged, eyes puffy, hair matted on one side.
Her gaze dropped lower, tracing the lines of her body.
She looked thinner … slimmer in places she hadn’t noticed before.
She touched her neck gently. Her lymph nodes felt a little swollen again, just like they had before she’d left New Orleans.
That, along with the recent night sweats and fatigue had prompted her to see her oncologist before this trip to Napa—for tests, just to rule out any issues.
She told herself it was nothing. It was just a routine checkup—a precaution.
But the what-ifs crept in anyway. She’d been cancer-free for some time, but in the quiet corners of her mind, she knew it carried with it the potential for return.
She grimaced and reached for the faucet. And now, with cold water on her face and a toothbrush inside her mouth, she needed to look better than she felt.
Downstairs, Zoe, Mila, and Remi were gathered around the island laughing and talking.
The warmth of their voices drifted upward, and for a moment it felt like a party she hadn’t been invited to.
She leaned against the banister, listening.
Her daughter’s laughter was easy and effortless, like she belonged in a way that Bianca didn’t.
It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly. It was more like grief for a closeness she hadn’t earned with her.
“Oh, there she is.” Zoe spotted Bianca first, hopped down from the stool, and hugged her. “Good morning, Aunt B.”
Mila was slow to greet her—gave her a weak hug, almost pitiful. “Morning, Mom.”
Bianca studied her daughter carefully. The front of her dark hair streaked with subtle highlights—likely a summer experiment.
But that toboggan still covered the rest of her head like it did when they’d video-chatted a few days ago.
A new fad? Bianca wasn’t sure. And she looked slimmer than usual, almost too much so, as if food had escaped her for weeks.
Her tight, distressed jeans that usually clung to generous hips—like her mother’s—weren’t so tight.
Though a cropped vintage graphic tee revealed a sliver of her toned midriff.
Her rich, caramel skin had taken on a golden glow, kissed by the sun, but beneath it all, something about her seemed … off.
“Good morning to both of you! We weren’t expecting you until Friday.”
“I didn’t go to Maine. Daddy understood that I needed to come here for Aunt Remi.” Mila gave Remi a sweet smile. “I’ll join him and Jen in a few weeks, I guess.”
Bianca cringed when she heard Jen’s name. Jealousy rushed through her. “That was big of him.”
She remembered the first time she’d ever heard the woman’s name, or even knew she existed. It had rocked her to her core. She’d have been better off not knowing that someone new was quickly becoming a permanent fixture in Harry’s life.
Mila ignored her sarcasm. “You slept in this morning, I see.”
“Had a late night, honey.” Bianca walked over and stroked Mila’s brown tresses, the part extending from the toboggan. “What’s with this winter hat? You should let your hair breathe. It’s summertime.”
“My hair is fine, Mom.”
“I see.” Bianca didn’t press.
Mila leaned against the island, arms crossed. “Aunt Remi said you guys had a night out. Was it worth the headache?”
Bianca raised an eyebrow, brushing past the judgment in her tone. “Depends on who you ask.”
Remi stepped in with a grin. “She was the life of the party, as usual. You know your mother.”
“I do know my mother,” Mila mumbled, turning to pour herself some orange juice.
Bianca watched her daughter’s back as she moved. There was distance in every gesture, every word. It wasn’t just about last night—it hadn’t been for a long time.
Bianca leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “So … what’s the real reason for the early arrival?”
Mila sipped her juice, then set down the glass with a soft clink. “Why does there have to be another reason?”
“I don’t know,” Bianca said, trying to keep her tone light. “You were just so excited about going to Maine with your father and … what’s her name.”
Remi shot her a look—part warning, part curiosity—but said nothing.
Mila rolled her eyes. “I wanted to be here, for Aunt Remi. That’s it. That’s the reason.”
Bianca flinched inwardly. There was no mention of her in Mila’s wanting-to-be-there for other people. “Right. Of course. Well, it’s good to have you here.” She paused, glancing at Mila’s face for some softening. There was none.
Zoe, sensing the shift in energy, attempted a distraction. “Can we go to the flea market later, Aunt B? I want to find some vinyl so I can break in this new record player I got for Christmas.”
Bianca smiled at her, grateful. “Vinyl? Oh, you’re speaking my language now. You should see my record collection the next time you’re in Louisiana.”
“I would love to.”
“Of course we can check out a flea market, sweetheart. We’ll go after breakfast,” Bianca answered. “Remi, you coming?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Remi said, glancing at Mila. “Might be good for all of us to get out.”
Mila offered a tight smile. “Sure thing.”
Remi wrapped her arm around Mila’s shoulder. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
Bianca turned to the coffee maker, her hands gripping the counter as it buzzed to life. She grabbed a coffee cup from the shelf. Her hangover was fading, but a different kind of ache was settling in—the one that came from having her daughter close by but a million miles away.
The sun was already high by the time they pulled into the dusty lot behind the flea market. The place was alive with color, mismatched tents, tables full of old books, hand-painted signs, and the sound of someone strumming a guitar for tips.
Zoe hopped out of the car first, her black tank hugging her slender frame, a pair of baggy camo pants hung low on her hips, a leather backpack slung over one shoulder. “Okay, I want vinyl, vintage sunglasses, and maybe a fake fur coat for the winter.” She laughed.
“Very practical,” Remi said, locking the car with a chirp.
Bianca adjusted her sunglasses, grateful for the fresh air and the chance to pretend everything was fine. “Let’s stick together for the first half hour, then we can split up.”
Mila lagged behind, arms folded, her expression unreadable. She had on oversize sunglasses and earbuds in.
They walked in silence at first, past booths selling incense, mismatched jewelry, and faded comic books. Zoe darted ahead, pulling Remi with her, leaving Bianca and Mila alone.
Bianca glanced over. “You always do this thing when you’re mad at me. The sunglasses. The silence. The distance.”
Mila didn’t stop walking. “Maybe because I don’t want to have the same conversation for the thousandth time.”
“I’m not trying to fight with you.”
“Then don’t turn everything into a fight,” Mila said, voice low but sharp. “Not everything I do is about you.”
Bianca stopped at a booth full of antique picture frames, pretending to study them. “Sweetheart, I don’t know how to read you, but I’m really trying.”
Mila finally turned to face her, arms still crossed. “You want to know the truth? I didn’t come early for Aunt Remi necessarily. I came because I’m not particularly happy about Dad proposing to Jen. I don’t like her.” She said it emphatically.
Her words sent shock waves through Bianca, and she wanted to ask why—why her daughter disliked this woman her father was preparing to marry?
Was she jealous of having to share her time with Harry, or was it something else?
What had Jen done to make Mila feel this way, and express it so emphatically?
Bianca’s heart pounded. The air felt too thick.
Mila had always been perceptive, but she rarely voiced her feelings this directly.
Bianca had assumed she was adjusting, maybe even indifferent.
But this? I don’t like her. The words looped in her head.
She wanted to press, to understand why, but a part of her was afraid of the answer.
What if Jen had said something cruel? What if Harry had allowed it?
What if her daughter was navigating some silent grief alone?
“I think it’s too soon for him to be thinking about marriage,” she finally said. “But I didn’t come here to fix things with you either. I have my own issues.”
Bianca blinked, the words settling like dust in her chest. Concern rippled through her.
“I just wanted to be somewhere I didn’t have to smile so much.”
They stood in silence as a breeze picked up, rustling a row of dream catchers in all sorts of colors hanging from a nearby booth.
What issues did her daughter, who was so carefree, have? She wanted to know but didn’t dare ask that either. Not yet, at least.