Chapter 19 #3
Time stops. Everything screeches to a halt. Pictures play in a slideshow, gaining speed and traction as my brother’s words sear into my brain.
He left…
Tristan coming back from a meeting with Mitch’s lawyer and telling me I’d inherited the bar.
…the building…
All those nights eating two-minute noodles.
… to me.
Trading in my swish SUV for the used Toyota to afford the new fit-out after the faceless corporation that acted as my landlord refused to install the new heating system.
“You’re my landlord? You’re Pinnacle Property Investments?”
“Yeah. I started it after Mitch’s will-reading. I wanted our agreement to go through a corporation, so it didn’t make things messy between us.”
A hysterical laugh breaks out of me. “You didn’t want things to get messy, but you hid this from me, and now you’re hiking up my lease?”
“It’s not personal.”
“Not personal?”
“It’s not,” Tristan says hotly. “I didn’t want you to feel like I was standing over you—”
Another crazy howl escapes me.
“But my circumstances in London might be changing. I’ve been generous with the amount you’ve been paying so far. Some might say too generous.”
“Who? Who would say you’ve been too generous? I’m your fucking sister!”
“Cece—”
“I’ve been working my ass off to make Afterglow a success, and you’re going to raise my rent with no justification other than the fact that you’re not making enough money as a posho lawyer in London?”
He scowls, every trace of fake-calm gone. “I didn’t say I’m not making enough money.”
“Then why the hell are you asking me for more?”
He opens his mouth, but before he can respond, our parents swoop in like they always do.
“Cecelia! Why are you shouting at your brother? And out on the porch where anyone can hear you! My goodness.” Mum bustles in between us. “That’s enough of that. Everyone’s coming inside.”
“Did you know?” My eyes dart from Mum to Dad, and back again. “Did you know Tristan was my landlord?”
Neither of them answers. Mum’s sideways glance at Dad does them in. Electricity crackles under my skin, and the angry tears come bursting out.
“Of course you did.” I set my coffee mug on the porch railing and march down the stairs.
“We never expected you to want to keep the business,” Mum says. “You had a wonderful job in nursing.”
“Yes. So wonderful.”
“Cece,” my dad says. “Don’t do this.”
I turn, look him in the eyes. Brown eyes, just like mine. Mum and Tristan’s are blue. I always liked that, always liked that I could see myself in my dad and vice versa. I know what he’s asking—the same thing they’ve always asked of me.
Don’t be difficult.
Don’t make a scene.
Don’t ask us to choose between you and your brother.
I never did. I guess because I was always afraid they wouldn’t choose me.
I was right.
“You did this.” My voice is steadier than I expected as heartache cyclones through me. “All of you. Not me. You.”
Nobody comes after me as I stride down the garden path and out to the street. I feel them watching me, but I don’t look back. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, again and again, until I come to the corner.
In three blocks, I find what I’m looking for: the alley behind the old newsagent’s where Ada and I worked in high school.
It’s been a barbershop since Mr. Eckles died a decade ago, but the alley is the same.
A greasy dumpster, surrounded by cracked vinyl chairs, gathered around a battered coffee tin overflowing with cigarette butts.
I grab a chair and sit, sucking in lungfuls of air.
It doesn’t work, my throat’s too tight, and heat is blooming behind my breastbone.
I breathe out hard, pushing back against the invisible walls closing around me.
A panic attack. At least I hope it’s a panic attack and not The Big One coming way too soon.
A door clangs from somewhere nearby, but I don’t look around. The thought that someone can see me, see the poison leaking out from behind the easy-going shape I’m always fighting to keep in place, fills me with fear.
I lean forward and squeeze my eyes shut, as though that might stop the coffee and biscuits and two hotel breakfasts from rising in my stomach.
“Hey, lady, are you okay?”
My eyes fly open. A young barber in a leather apron.
“You good?” He takes a step toward me, and I jerk back so hard I bash my head on the brick wall behind me. The sharp pain blurs into my nausea, and I know I’m done.
“Move,” I croak at him.
He steps back, hands raised, just in time. I jackknife forward and vomit into the tiny drain by my feet. Coconut Krispies, caffeine, eggs, and the last of my dignity blast out of me in unholy surges. I close my eyes so I don’t have to see it.
“Dude!” the barber yelps. “Jesus!”
My diaphragm cramps, and my puking stops as suddenly as it starts. “Sorry. I’ve got a bad… everything.”
“Yeah, looks like it.”
I spit the last dregs of shame from my mouth into the gutter.
I glance up, the barber’s looking at me in horrified sympathy, and I can’t blame him.
I’m horrified at myself. For once again succumbing like this to the anxiety that’s been stalking me for the last year.
For not seeing the signs about Tristan. For how easily my parents took his side.
“Do… do you want some water or something?”
What I want is for him to leave me to rot in peace, but I’ll settle for water.
“Yes, please.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. The barber disappears into the building, and I wonder if he’s actually getting water or calling the police to say a crazy woman is puking up a storm behind his establishment.
I sit, listening for the sound of sirens, but as the seconds pass, my breath softens.
I think of Mum and Dad and Tristan. Of Jenny. Of Jake. Of Davis slamming the door as he walked away from me. Fuck them. Fuck them all. I am done being a fucking walkover.
The barber returns with a bottle of Mount Franklin. Now that adrenaline isn’t running the show, I can see he’s young, maybe early twenties and not half as disgusted with me as he should be. Maybe he has sisters or something. I bet he doesn’t rip them off in rent.
“Do you want to come in?” he suggests. “Maybe wash your hands before…?”
I manage a tiny smile. “I touch a clean bottle of water? Yeah, thanks, that would be nice.”
He leads me into my old workplace, though it’s completely different now. Bright white walls with graffiti art lead the way to the bathroom. I go inside and rinse my mouth under the tap before scrubbing my hands with fancy liquid soap. The barber is waiting for me when I emerge.
He hands me the bottle of water. “Better?”
“Yeah, thanks.” I crack the bottle and drain half.
“Anytime.” He hesitates. “Is there anyone I can call for you? You need anything else?”
I look at him over the water bottle. Do I need anything else? I think of Davis asking me almost the same thing, and my heart aches. He had a point, though. And so does this guy. What does Cece Taylor need?
“Yeah,” I say, after I’ve swallowed every hint of my weakness, packing it up and shoving it under the blankets of my consciousness. I don’t need that shit cluttering up my already racing brain right now. “Have you got anyone here that can do a blowout? I need to look really, really, good tonight.”