Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Skye
"Hey girls," Mom says when we walk in the back door.
"Hey Mom Number Two," Harper says, walking into the kitchen and washing her hands. "What can I do?"
"Hey, I'm going to show Justin something. I'll be right back," I say.
"Okay, Hun. He's in his room. Tell him dinner will be done soon so he needs to come down."
"Will do," I say, walking into the living room and heading upstairs with my sketchbook clutched against my chest.
I knock on his door but get no response.
I try again, a little louder this time, and still nothing, so I push the door open gently.
Justin's sitting at his desk, completely absorbed in his drawing, headphones clamped over his ears and blocking out the world.
I walk over, careful not to startle him.
When I get close enough that my shadow falls across his paper, he notices me and takes his headphones off.
"Hey," he says, his expression brightening.
"Hey. Whatcha working on?" I ask, leaning over his shoulder to examine the intricate sketch of a cityscape. The detail is incredible—tiny windows reflecting light, precise architectural lines, even tiny people going about their lives. He's so good it makes my chest ache a little.
"It's a project for art," he says, running his finger along the edge of a skyscraper. "I've been working on it for three weeks."
"Well, show me what you have," I say and sit on his bed, the springs creaking slightly beneath me. He grabs the sketchbook and brings it over, sitting beside me, our shoulders touching.
He explains the project with growing enthusiasm, flipping through pages of preliminary sketches and different compositions.
I love them all—the way he captures light and shadow, the precision of his lines—but one particular drawing of a beach at sunset completely draws me in.
The waves curl perfectly toward shore, the sun bleeds gold and crimson across the horizon, and there's a peaceful emptiness to it that makes me wish I was there right now, toes in the sand, without the crushing weight of everything pressing down on me. It looks like the perfect escape.
"This one," I say, pointing down at the beach scene, my fingertip hovering just above the paper to avoid smudging his work. "I love this. The way the light hits the water... it's like you can feel the warmth."
"I was going between that one and the NYC one," he says, glancing between the two drawings with a critical eye.
"Well, both are great, truly amazing, but this is my favorite. There's something about it that just feels... peaceful." The word catches in my throat a little.
"Thanks," he says, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Oh, I came to show you one I've been working on," I tell him as I open my book, suddenly feeling a bit nervous. I flip to my latest piece. "It's like a double exposure on film but a drawing."
"That's awesome," he says, leaning closer to examine it.
His eyes trace the lines where the forest merges with the girl's profile, trees becoming veins, leaves becoming eyelashes.
"It's like a large forest inside of a girl's face.
You're really creative. The way you've made the trees part of her... it's like she's made of the forest."
"Aww, thanks little bro," I say and rub his hair in the way I know annoys him, messing up the careful way he's styled it today.
"Bro," he groans, ducking away from my hand and smoothing his hair back down.
I just laugh and get up, the bed springs releasing with a squeak. "Oh, Mom said to come down for dinner. It smells amazing, and Harper's helping, so you know it'll be good."
"Be down in a minute," he says, already turning back to his work, fingers hovering over his headphones.
"Alrighty," I say and head out of his room and back to the kitchen to find Harper helping Mom bring dinner to the table, the two of them moving around each other with practiced ease.
"What were you showing him?" Mom asks, setting down a steaming casserole dish.
"This piece I've been working on," I say, sliding my sketchbook onto the counter. "And his landscapes are amazing. Like, seriously professional-level amazing."
"Oh, I know right? Like, I wish I had a sliver of his talent. Yours too. I don't know where you guys got it from—your father and I are not creative or artsy in the least," she says, sitting down with a glass of wine, the red liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
The word "father" hangs in the air like a bad smell, toxic and lingering.
Mom takes a big sip of her wine, and I can almost see her mentally kicking herself, the slight wince that crosses her features.
We don't talk about him. Not since he walked out on us for his secretary—such a cliché it would be funny if it hadn't completely destroyed our lives, leaving us scrambling for financial survival.
I look down at my plate, tracing the floral pattern with my eyes as Harper seamlessly changes the subject, chattering animatedly about some complicated French pastry she's planning to try.
I'm grateful for her ability to navigate these awkward moments when words fail me.
My mind drifts back to the auction I just set up online.
Would I actually go through with it? The thought makes my stomach twist into a tight, painful knot, but then I glance at Mom, noticing the new lines around her eyes, the way her clothes hang a little looser than they used to, how the roots of her hair need touching up but we can't afford the salon.
Justin comes down and slides into his chair, immediately launching into a detailed explanation of color theory he's applying to his landscapes.
His hands move expressively as he talks about complementary colors and atmospheric perspective.
The way his eyes light up when he talks about art—that pure, unfiltered passion—that's what I'm doing this for.
That's what makes this whole terrifying prospect worth it.
He deserves a chance, deserves better than what we can give him right now.
"Earth to Skye," Harper says, nudging me under the table, her foot tapping mine. "Your mom asked if you're feeling okay. You're totally zoning out."
"Oh, sorry," I say, forcing a smile that I hope looks convincing. "Just tired. End of semester stuff, you know how it is." I push my food around my plate, trying to look normal.
"You're working too hard," Mom says, reaching over to touch my hand, her fingers cool against mine. "Between school and your online job and helping with Justin... I worry about you, sweetheart."
If she only knew about my "online job." My cheeks burn with shame, but I squeeze her hand reassuringly. "I'm fine, Mom. Really." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
“Speaking of vacation” Harper says.
"Nobody said vacation," I say and look at Harper, suspicion creeping in. Her eyes have that familiar gleam that always means she's planning something. "What are you up to?"
"Well," Harper says, setting down her fork, "you know how I go to Cali every summer and spend it with my dad?"
"Yesss," I say, dragging it out, instantly wary of wherever this is going.
"Well I asked if I could bring a friend and he said yes, and before you say no everything is paid for and you can still work online there so you won't miss out on money and please please please!
" She rushes out a whole mouthful of words without taking a breath, her hair bouncing with excitement as she speaks.
I sit there blinking, trying to comprehend all she just said. My brain feels like it's buffering, unable to process the sudden information dump. The idea of California—of actually leaving Pennsylvania—seems so foreign it might as well be another planet.
"Huh?" Justin says, pausing with his fork halfway to his mouth, his expression mirroring my confusion.
"Exactly," I say and look at him, grateful I'm not the only one overwhelmed. My mind is already calculating the logistics—the impossibility of it all. Who would make sure Justin and mom are okay?
"Oh that sounds like so much fun!" Mom chimes in, betraying me with unexpected enthusiasm, a genuine smile lighting up her tired face. I can't remember the last time I saw her eyes crinkle like that.
"But I can't leave them," I say to Harper, gesturing toward Mom and Justin. The very idea seems impossible. Who would keep everything from falling apart? I'm the glue—I can't just dissolve for a summer.
"Yes you can," Mom says firmly, reaching across to squeeze my hand. "We'll be fine. Plus, you really need a little break before you start your second year of college."
I glare at Harper, suspecting a conspiracy. They've clearly discussed this behind my back. The traitorous planning session must have happened when I was upstairs.
"I want you to come this time," Harper says, leaning forward earnestly, her green eyes practically begging. "I miss you every summer, and my dad is really nice. You two will get along—he spent his youth in the 90s so he likes the movies and music you're into. It's so weird you like that old stuff."
"Hey, you like some of it too," I defend, thinking of how she's always stealing my playlists. The Pixies shirt she "borrowed" three weeks ago has mysteriously disappeared into her wardrobe rotation.
"Yeah, only because you make me," she throws back with a playful eye roll, her lips curving into that confident smile that makes everything seem possible.
"Hun," Mom interrupts, her voice softer than I've heard it in weeks, her hand still warm over mine, "just go and have fun. We will be fine, and if I need something, I'll tell you."
"Yeah, I'll take care of the house for Mom," Justin says confidently, forking another bite into his mouth. He sits up straighter, his shoulders squared, obviously pleased at the prospect of having more responsibility.
I look between them, these people I've been holding together with sheer willpower and love, and for the first time notice they're looking at me with concern rather than need.
The realization makes my chest tighten. Have I been so obviously exhausted?
So transparently worn down that they're conspiring to give me a break?
"Are you sure?" I ask Mom, searching her face for any hint of doubt, any flicker of fear that I might read as a reason to stay.
"Positive," she says, the certainty in her voice unwavering. The slight tremor in her hand contradicts her, but the determination in her eyes doesn't.
A small part of me—a part I usually ignore because it wants things I can't afford to want—whispers that maybe I could have this.
Maybe I could leave for just a little while without everything collapsing.
Maybe I could be nineteen for a few weeks instead of being the backup adult.
Maybe I could breathe without feeling like I'm stealing someone else's air.
"Ahhh, okay," I say, the words feeling foreign as they leave my mouth, like I'm speaking a language I barely understand.
Harper lets out a squeal so high-pitched it could probably shatter glass, launching from her chair with the exuberance that makes her so magnetic.
"Can we not?" Justin groans, covering his ears dramatically, wincing at the sonic assault.
"Sorry," she says, not looking sorry at all as she bounces over to hug me, her familiar scent of vanilla enveloping me. "We are going to have so much fun!"
The warmth of her embrace feels nice, and despite my lingering anxiety, I find myself smiling.
California. Sun, ocean, and temporary escape from the weight on my shoulders.
The beach from Justin's drawing flashes in my mind—peaceful, open, full of light.
Maybe I could find a moment like that for myself.
And if I'm being completely honest, the thought of seeing Harper's father, who she talks about constantly but who I've only met once in all our years of friendship, makes me more curious than I want to admit.
I don't even remember what he looks like.
What kind of man could raise someone as confident and vibrant as Harper?
What kind of house would they stay in? What would it be like to see the other half of her life?