Chapter 42
forty-two
PRESENT DAY
KATE
Chicago is overcast as the plane touches down. I tug off my noise cancelling headphones and pause my self-help podcast. I barely registered a word of it. Shoving my things in my bag, I wait for the awkward dance of passengers removing their carry-ons from the overhead bins.
I was able to fly Brandon’s absence under the radar until the shuttle came to pick us all up from the beach house. Liza had enough sense to not question me in front of our parents, who both had the nerve to look smug as if I was the one who sent Brandon away.
They can think what they want.
I’m numb, hollow, and entirely too exhausted to discuss a word of what went down last night.
In fact, I’m still not entirely sure of what went down last night.
While I have Brandon’s number and could try to find clarification, it’s like my heart has been sliced open, each nerve ending a live wire of pain.
I knew this would happen if we got close again. Didn’t I warn us both to stay friends? And like stupid exes who don’t know how to stay exes, we blurred the lines. Fragmented reality, and both of our hearts got shattered because of it.
My family took up the rows behind me, so I’m first off the plane. I half consider racing away to baggage claim, but I’m only a few feet through the gate when Liza puffs up beside me. Her face is red, like she elbowed a few passengers to get to me and now feels bad about it.
Cam does his due diligence down the jetway, stalling my parents with some conversation I can’t hear.
Liza turns the full force of her attention onto me and swipes an overgrown bang behind her ear.
“Spill. Now.”
I tip the shoulder of my graphic silk bomber jacket and continue walking. “What’s to tell?”
“I don’t know, maybe why your boyfriend ditched you on family vacation?!”
I deflate, dragging my carry-on for a few more paces. “I don’t wanna talk about this, Liza.”
“Katherine Margaret Chen. You get back here right now.”
Hearing my full name come from Liza’s mouth almost makes me laugh, but I’m too tired to laugh. Too tired to cry. Too tired to do anything but drag my carry-on toward baggage claim.
She catches up to me. “Kate, what’s going on?! If Cam left me on family vacation, you’d punch his lights out. Tell me what to do so I can help.”
I shake my head. “I said I don’t want to talk about this.”
Liza’s sympathy grows annoyed. “I can’t shake the feeling that you’re keeping something from me. Why? We tell each other everything!”
I continue my steps with a dry response. “Eduardo Garcia, seventh grade.”
An exasperated growl rumbles out of my sister.
“It was one secret boyfriend in the seventh grade, Kate. Get over it.”
“K,” I say flatly, scanning for signs to get out of here.
“Does it have something to do with Mom and Dad? Or did you do something to scare him off?”
I stop in my tracks, then whirl on her. “Funny. Speaking of Mom, you’re starting to sound more and more like her.”
She gapes. “Take that back.”
“No,” I say, twisting and yanking my suitcase along. She stumbles to keep up.
“I can’t believe you!” she sputters. “You’re the one keeping something from me. Kate, I know how hard your life has been—”
“Oh, get off your high horse,” I snap, turning on her. “Don’t pretend to understand what you can’t. Fine. You want the truth?”
“Yes!”
“Okay. Here’s the truth. You never stand up to Mom and Dad.
I’m the only one who gets blood on her hands, and I have to live with the repercussions because of it!
All while you ride off into the sunset, scot-free.
” I know I’m acting like a complete jerk, but it’s like my exhausted filter is short-circuiting.
Words that have been stewing for years finally bubble over.
“Liza, you hate half the things Mom has forced in the wedding planning! It’s your friggin’ wedding!
You should just, I don’t know, elope instead of listening to one more of her demands.
But do you tell her off? Tell her ‘No’ even? ”
I get close to her beet-red face. “Nope!” I pop the “p” in the way that I know pisses her off. “There. Now you know the truth. So call me when you stop pretending to know everything I’ve been through.”
I turn and drag my suitcase across the tiles in silence that lasts about two seconds.
“I’m not calling you ever again!” she shouts after me.
I give her a two finger salute without turning back. “Sounds good,” I say, even though we both know she’s lying. I’ll hear from her by the end of the week.
Only, I don’t.
Or the week after that.
Nor the week after that.
It’s been three weeks since Liza has talked to me.
Three weeks of finalizing Amantha’s exhibition plans and working alone on grant applications in that tiny office.
Val must have taken pity on Brandon, because he now has a temporary desk inside his office where Brandon can make calls.
If Kendra is bothered by it, she’s turning a blind eye.
Aside from emails and stilted work conversations, Brandon and I still haven’t talked about that night in the sand. I don’t know why he so vehemently needed that affirmation before I was ready to give it, and it hurts like crazy that he discarded me so quickly because of it.
So what would Kate Chen do?
You guessed it.
Wear taller heels, sharpen my eyeliner, and stomp across anyone who gets in my path. Being vulnerable is overrated. And despite all my efforts to grow, all I’ve gotten in return is a broken heart, a sister who won’t talk to me, and a no-contact parental relationship.
It’s the Sunday morning after Amantha insisted on having a girls’ weekend full of sleepovers, and I’m languishing in the dark, vacant room like the black cat I am.
Whatever black-out curtains Amantha hung in Anthony’s bedroom are extremely effective.
As much as I love my faux-nephew, I’m glad to have some privacy while he’s spending the weekend at his dad’s.
I vow to buy myself a pair of the magic, soul-sucking curtains as I snuggle deeper beneath the soft cotton bedspread and lap up the darkness. But then the door to Anthony’s bedroom flies open, and Amantha flicks on the light.
I hiss like a deranged cat, still wearing last night’s work out clothes. Because even though I’m heartbroken, I refuse to get out of shape, too.
Amantha marches toward the window, yanking the curtains open to the bright sunshine.
“Get up,” she demands, then wrinkles her nose. “You need to shower. Anthony’s gonna be home tonight from Ryan’s, so we gotta move you to the office futon.”
My back aches just thinking about it, but I’m not gonna complain. Plus, Amantha is the kind of friend that wouldn’t kick me out even if I pooped on her rug like an actual house cat.
I am surprised she’s this chipper today, seeing as we stayed up so late last night.
I finally cracked last night and told Amantha all about Hopefully Yours. Maybe Liza calling me out that I was keeping something from her or Brandon saying that I’m like my parents flipped my moral compass.
Amantha’s gray eyes were huge last night as I recounted the texts. The failed calls. The disconnected beeps and undeliverable responses. By the time I got to the topic of the unaddressed packages on my doorstep, I was weeping with Amantha’s arms around me.
She showed no sense of hurt over me not telling her sooner. As if she trusted that I made the right choice for the both of us, the same way she did for me when all of that crime stuff went down at the museum last year.
We had each other’s backs, no matter what.
Just like Liza and I used to.
A fresh wave of sadness had drenched me, and I got sucked into another whirlpool of tears. Everything was going to crap. My team of supporters had dwindled to one, and I couldn’t even think of anyone else to recruit.
Val had walked into our evening cry-fest from the front door, holding bags of take-out and a carton of ice cream. He must have had a work meeting at the museum, because he was still wearing his expensive slacks and white button up shirt.
“You called?” Val gave a nervous grin, gesturing with the bags. “Did I do something stupid again and this a ‘Val-is-the-worst-rallying-war-cry’ session, or am I off the hook?”
Amantha had let out a watery laugh. “You’re off the hook. But if you forgot my ice cream, you’re a dead man.” She grinned as Val lifted the carton as proof. He plopped the bags on the dining room table, unpacking containers while sweeping us with a clinical eye.
“Okay, fill me in,” he said. “Who do I need to murder? As long as it’s not my assistant, I’m game.”
A tired laugh puffed out of me. “It’s not Brandon this time, but thanks for making it clear whose side you’re on, Russo.”
He tipped a grin in my direction. “Can’t murder my best man a month before my wedding. Amantha would kill me.”
I groaned and flopped over onto the armrest of the couch. “Guys. I’m so sorry. You only have a month left! You don’t have time for my drama.”
Amantha hauled me up and into a hug. “You are more important than the pushy caterers.”
“They’re still bugging you?” Val looked back up from unloading the takeout. “That’s it. Put it on my checklist. I’m taking that task off yours.”
The heated look in Amantha’s eyes made me miss Brandon so much that a pang reverberated behind my sternum. I rubbed the ache and forced in a deep breath.
Amantha’s intuition must have rubbed off on Val, because concern I’d never seen in him before pinched his brow as he took me in.
“What’s going on, Kate?” he asked.
Amantha chewed her lip, turning to me. “Is it okay if I tell him?”
I nodded, and she filled Val in about H.Y. To my surprise, he pulled out his phone mid-conversation and began to type.
Once she finished, I asked Val, “What are you typing?”