Chapter 34
I couldn’t sleep.
I tried, damn it, but all I did was lie there, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the fan pointed at me. And every single time I start to drift, her face shows up behind my eyes, so stupidly hopeful, and then so hurt.
I’m too old for this shit.
I swing my legs out of bed and stub my toe on the dresser. “Fuck,” I hiss, the pain sending me over the edge enough to make my eyes water. But I suck it up. I am not crying over her anymore.
I stumble into the kitchen, ignoring the light switch, but it’s already too bright from the windows. My head throbs behind my eyes, punishing me for doing the right thing.
I run a hand through my hair, which I didn’t bother brushing, and my fingers get stuck in it. So I look like shit, the same way I feel.
Wonderful.
My eyes land on the drawer and stay there as I breathe through the tightness in my chest. I’ve had worse. I just have to get through the day, I’ll be okay. I didn’t need her before, I don’t need her now.
I yank open the drawer.
It’s been years since I quit.
I’m not actually going to do it. I’m gonna hold it. Put it in my mouth, but not light it. I pull a cigarette from the pack I always meant to throw away and dig around the junk drawer until I find a yellow lighter stuffed in the back.
It sparks on the first try. I take that as a sign.
The nicotine hits, loosening something in me. My shoulders drop as I exhale, and my thoughts slow enough that they stop tripping over each other. I blow the smoke into the kitchen like my mother used to, not even bothering to crack a window.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter to myself.
Leaning against the counter, cigarette dangling between my lips, I feel the anger from last night simmering beneath the surface. Not as explosive, I wouldn’t be able to replicate that if I tried. No, this anger…
I was fine.
I had a rhythm. A life I was okay with. A hard-won peace. I spent the last twenty years since Pat died slowly, so fucking slowly, pulling myself out of the grave with him, and then Diana Whitmore kissed me on my porch.
Like she hadn’t already made her choice.
Like she didn’t use me and discard me like I was nothing.
Who does she think she is?
Thinking she can show up after all this time and act like nothing ever happened, act like it’s perfectly okay for her to kiss me.
I told her everything. Every dream I had. Every future I could imagine. I laid it out for her in no uncertain terms, and she still walked down that aisle, happy as can be.
And now she thinks that kind of betrayal can be fixed by pretending she wanted to be my friend? I mean, shit, she couldn’t even make it three months before reverting back to what she used to do to me.
My hand curls into a fist.
Screw her.
I take another drag, then another, until the cigarette burns down to nothing. I stub it out in the sink with more force than necessary, before grabbing another one.
I’m not doing this again.
I’m not going back to being the girl who waited around hoping she’d finally love me. I’m not the one who can’t say no anymore.
I did. I told Diana no, and I’m proud of myself for that.
And then my cell phone rings.
Clara.
I let it ring out, my eyes fixed stubbornly on the paint-splattered hardwood. I am not answering that. When the ringing stops, I let out a breath of relief.
Which only lasts a second before it starts up again.
I groan, dragging a hand down my face, and hit decline.
The phone rings again.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Decline.
It doesn’t stop ringing. Every decline, she calls again. And I don’t remember how to put the damn thing on silent. Finally, after it’s made my headache much worse, I grab the phone and jab the green button harder than necessary.
“What?” I shout into it. “What do you want?”
There’s a pause on the other end. Clara isn’t used to my temper. I would never normally shout at her, but she wouldn’t stop calling.
“Lily, I’m sorry to bother you. I know it’s early.”
I scoff, leaning back against the counter. “If this is about Diana, I really don’t give a—”
“I’m worried about her.”
I roll my eyes because that’s easier than hearing the real concern in her voice. “I’m sure she’s very sad that actions have consequences. I don’t see how that’s my problem.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Clara says, and there’s no mistaking it. She’s serious. “She isn’t… she’s not okay.”
She’ll be fine. I can’t be expected to run to her side every time she’s upset.
“I wouldn’t be calling you if I didn’t think this was serious.”
Irritation flares hot in my chest. “You can’t seriously be expecting me to care right now, Clara. Diana made her bed—”
“I don’t want to do this over the phone,” she cuts in. “I know you’re angry, but she’s—” Clara exhales shakily. “She’s not well.”
My fingers tighten around the phone.
This is bullshit. It’s manipulation, plain and simple. Make me feel bad, act like I’m the asshole, so I’ll apologize and let her kiss me as much as she wants, no matter how much it hurts me.
“I need you to come over,” she continues. “Please.”
Silence stretches between us. I tell myself no. I tell myself I’m done. I was strong last night. I can do it again.
“Fuck,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll come by. But this doesn’t mean anything. And I don’t forgive her.”
I hang up before she can say anything else.
So much for being strong.
I stroll into the Rose manor like it hasn’t haunted my nightmares for my entire life. I’ve avoided it all these years. I don’t turn down this street, I don’t even want to see the place.
But here I am, right back the second Diana supposedly needs me.
At least her mother isn’t here to greet me.
Instead, Clara opens the door before I can knock, like she was waiting. Her eyes are red and puffy, and her clothes are more rumpled than the pajamas I came over in. She looks wrecked, and seeing her like that tugs at my heartstrings.
Clara may be a fifty-year-old woman, but to me, she’s still Diana’s baby sister.
“Jesus, Clare,” I say, leaving my anger at the door. “What is it? What happened?”
And suddenly she’s crying again, covering her face with her hands. That makes my stomach twist painfully as my mind starts to think of a million terrible reasons why Clara is crying right now.
Is Diana okay?
Did something happen to her, too?
The thought of losing Diana the same way I lost Pat plays like a movie in my head. “I—” she chokes out. “You’re going to hate me.”
I step closer despite the panic threatening to overtake me. “Clara,” I say firmly, catching her wrists and gently pulling her hands away from her face. “Talk to me. What happened?”
She tells me everything.
She tells me that when I gave her the letter, she knew she shouldn’t read it, but she did anyway, because she was curious. I hold my breath, waiting for her to continue.
“She was getting married,” Clara continues desperately. “It was her wedding. Everyone was coming, and I didn’t want her to ruin everything. I didn’t want her to leave, and I knew if she got the letter, she would. She loved you so much, Lily.”
This can’t be happening.
“So I told Mom,” Clara whispers. “And she was furious. She yelled at me and sent me to my room, and that was it. Diana got married and life kept going.”
No.
No.
“I didn’t think about it again,” she admits, shame filling her blue eyes. “And then years passed and—” She swallows. “I found the letter in Mom’s things after she died.”
I close my eyes.
“I thought it was too late. I thought it didn’t matter anymore. And now I see her like this, and I know that I ruined everything for you both, and if I had given her the letter like I was supposed to, none of this would have happened, and you would both be happy and—”
She cuts herself off, crying too hard to say anything. And I know I should be comforting her right now, but my entire world has shifted on its axis.
Everything I thought I believed, every bit of anger I have in my body for Diana, disappears like it was never there in the first place.
She never rejected me.
She never even got my letter.
“Lily?” Clara whispers. “Say something.”
I open my eyes. I don’t remember closing them. But what I see… Clara looks terrified. She looks like she’s 8 years old and about to be punished, and I won’t have that.
“Hey,” I say softly, stepping forward and pulling her into my arms. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
“But—”
“No. You were a kid. I never should have given you that letter. I should have marched up those stairs and told Diana how I felt right then and there, but I was too scared. If this is on anyone, it’s me.” I pause before adding, “Or your mom. She certainly didn’t help.”
“I avoided you for so long,” she whispers. “Every time I saw you I felt so guilty…”
I hold her tight, and I try to ease her guilt because it really wasn’t her fault. She was 8 years old.
But behind all of that, my mind reels, the revelation settling in.
Diana never had a choice.
And neither did I.
Diana loved me, too.
I pull back to look at Clara, cupping her face the way I used to when she was small. “You don’t have anything to feel guilty about,” I tell her. “And I don’t hate you. Not even a little.”
She nods, wiping at her cheeks.
“Now, where is Diana?”
Climbing the stairs up to her bedroom again, it feels strange. Deja vu. Even though the last time I was here, she was about to get married.
When I push open the door, I blink, letting out a quiet, “woah.”
This isn’t Diana’s bedroom.
The pink walls, the clutter, the shelves filled with knick-knacks, they’re all gone. In its place is nothing more than a guest bedroom. White walls, a simple bed, nothing distinct at all. But I don’t have time to process it fully before my eyes land on her.
She’s on the floor against the bed, with her knees drawn up to her chest, still wearing the blue dress she wore yesterday.
And then my eyes land on the letter. The very same one I spent hours pouring my heart into, old and crumpled, open in front of her.