25. June #2
“Mom’s disappointment after years of her support must really suck.
I wouldn’t know, I never had her support to lose it.
” Wils shakes her head. “My childhood was totally different from yours. I never got to have Mom or Dad growing up. They were so busy with rehearsals and lessons and performances for you and Laurel, and themselves. And I was just … there.”
“What?” My heart, so sore and bruised from today, aches to wrap my sister in a hug. But if Wils brushes me off, my bruised heart would finally crack.
“You’ve got no clue how it feels growing up in the Danielowicz Family Band, and being relegated to the fucking tambourine.” She swipes furiously at an errant tear.
That single tear eats a hole through my chest. “Davy Jones was just the tambourine player, and look at him! The most famous Monkee.”
“Can you not with the music references right now?” She laughs as she says it, though.
“But you set it up so perfectly.” Quietly, I continue, “I always thought you just didn’t want to be like that with us.”
“It’s easier to pretend I don’t want to be included rather than feel excluded. But I should’ve said something a long time ago.”
“You’re saying something now.” Screw it, I shuffle closer and sling an arm around Willow’s shoulder. “We should’ve made more of an effort to include you. For what it’s worth, you’re really brave for not trying to fit in.”
“Jesus, shut up.” She laughs again, her arm sliding around my back to hold me close. The years, the differences, it all fades away.
We break apart, and I settle back into the comfy cushions. “It’s weird that you and I were raised by the same people, but they weren’t the same parents.”
“Yeah.” Wils sips her wine, gaze going distant.
“And now I need some of your screw-the-world attitude.” Rejection’s easy to swallow in my career. But maybe it makes rejection in my personal life hit harder. God, I envy my baby sister.
“And I need your vulnerability, and your drive. But, you know, for my own thing.”
“You’ll find it, I have no doubt.” Someone so strong and smart is bound to find the thing that calls to their heart. Growing up in a music-loving family when her heart wasn’t in it? How immeasurably lonely she must’ve felt.
But she confided in me, and that connection means more than any song or instrument. And I won’t let my brave sister be vulnerable alone anymore. “I don’t want to break up with Nick. But if I have to worry about disappointing him, it’ll never work.”
“Talk to him, give him a chance.”
“I know. And I tried, on the way over here. But it felt like—like we were having two different conversations.”
“You have to be on the same page to have the same conversation. Tell him about the crush thing.”
“I tried!” I shrug, my arm flopping on the back of the couch. “I gave him the opportunity. He didn’t say anything.”
“And what’s your excuse for not talking about your audition?”
My voice is a full octave higher. “My excuse? Fuck you.”
“You know I’m right, Junie.” She crosses her arms.
“If I tell him about the audition, it’ll hurt him.”
She remains silent, staring, arching that stupid brow.
My face burns, pulse fluttering, but I force out the truth. “Fine, sometimes I like the pedestal, it feels good. Even though it’s not real, and it’s fucking exhausting. I’m scared to lose it.”
“There it is.” A sassy finger wag and eyebrow combo. Damn. “And it sucks because it feels like you lost Mom’s pedestal, too. Doesn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I murmur.
Wils shakes her head, a sharp laugh escaping her throat. “And to think, I was jealous of Mom treating you like the sun shines out of your butt. But it was a trap.”
“I twisted myself into the shape of what I thought they wanted, or expected. But you’re right, perfect is a trap.” I sigh and gulp down more wine. “I thought I was fine with rejection professionally, but apparently I’m not compartmentalizing well enough.”
“You don’t need to compartmentalize, think bigger!” She waves her glass, wine sloshing inside. “It’s professional or personal. It’s New York or Nick. Why can’t it be both?”
If I don’t talk to Nick, we’ll never have a real chance.
But it’s only a chance, it’s not guaranteed.
And if I lose him because of who I am, I never had him.
My head swims. I definitely drank my wine too fast, but it’s more than that.
Telling Wils all this has eased so much strain on my shoulders, so I keep confessing. “Can I tell you something?”
“Christ, what more could we possibly say to each other?”
“Shut up.” I smack her arm, then run my teeth over my bottom lip, and whisper, “I don’t want kids.”
“Like, ever?”
“Yeah. Is that selfish?”
“It’s selfish for people to have kids because they’re checking off a box of the next thing they’re supposed to do. If it’s not a hell yes, then it’s a no.”
Social media isn’t real life, but everyone posts photos of their kids or the houses they buy in the suburbs, and I’m the odd one out. I’m the problem. Until Wils said something insightful and wise after a couple glasses of wine. “How are you so smart?”
“I had a neglectful sister who showed me inappropriate movies at a young age, which forced me to grow up too fast.” She shoots me a look. Pure Willow.
“All I’m hearing is I made you a better person, so you’re welcome.”
“Thanks, loser.” Wils grabs the TV remote. “Want to get drunk, put shorts on our heads, and watch Grey Gardens ?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”