What’s Left of Us

1. now

now

My hair is blue and here’s why: Mom asked me to attend Phoebe Blake’s wedding. It’s a horrific ask—and she knows that—but Mom so rarely asks for anything at all. I suspect she’s working on expressing her needs with her therapist, so it’d be monstrous to deny her.

I didn’t say no to Phoebe’s wedding.

I did, however, say yes to a discount box of royal blue hair dye.

Applying it was messier than I expected, and there’s a deep blue stain on my temple that makeup won’t cover.

But it’s done. I hardly look like myself, and it makes faking a smile a bit easier.

I practice in the fogged mirror of my bathroom, pulling my lips up at the corners, before applying red lipstick.

It’s a poor choice—too brash with the already shocking hair, but I don’t change it.

Instead, I walk past my hanging bridesmaid dress and flop onto my bed. I snag my ukulele from the floor and settle into the pillows. I have no idea how late it is, but I definitely don’t have time to do this. I do it anyway, strumming lazily and staring blankly up at the textured ceiling.

“Violet!” Mom’s steps echo on the stairs.

I don’t respond. I change chord progressions and switch to a slower strum pattern.

Mom calls my name again, and I glance at the alarm clock on my nightstand. It’s the same one I had in my childhood bedroom. I’m not sure why I kept it. The thing is blocky and decades old and one of the numbers barely works. I should throw it out. I will. Just not yet.

According to the retro clock, we’re supposed to leave in two minutes.

“Violet, it’s time to go.” Mom knocks on the door, pausing a whopping two seconds before opening it. “Did you find a pair of shoes or—”

She breaks off mid-sentence. Eyebrows to her hairline, she blinks at me several times before speaking.

She and I don’t look alike, even without the blue hair as a factor.

She’s dark-haired and brown-eyed and has the most beautifully bronzed skin.

Nat looked—looks—just like her. I, on the other hand, have naturally blonde hair and blue eyes and skin so pale I get at least one nasty sunburn per summer.

I look like my father. I wonder if she despises me for it.

“Tell me that’s fake.”

“The blue?” I quirk an eyebrow before glancing down at the wet tips of my hair. “No, it’s natural.”

“Violet, please. Is that permanent dye?”

“Oh. Yes.” My voice is clipped, if only to hide the growing knot in my throat. Part of me wants Mom to yell at me, to ask what’s going on in this demented skull of mine.

Instead, she quietly asks, “You can’t wash it out?”

“Nope. Thought it’d look nice with the dress.”

My bridesmaid dress is blue, but it’s a completely different shade. Phoebe opted for a pale blue, like an early morning sky. It’s the same wedding she described when we were kids. Nat never talked much about getting married, but one time I dragged an answer out of her.

Yellow, she’d said. Her bridesmaids would wear yellow. I’d been upset because that color doesn’t look good with my skin tone. I’d give anything to wear her ugly bridesmaid dress now.

“Violet.” Mom looks like a half-deflated balloon, one needle away from popping. “At least dry it, will you?”

With that, she leaves, her green dress swishing around her ankles as she goes.

If I were a good daughter, I’d tell her she looks beautiful.

That no one at this wedding will have any idea she cries herself to sleep at night.

That I love her, that even if I’m bad at showing it, I’m grateful for all she’s done.

But I’m not a good daughter. I’m not even a particularly good human.

I toss my ukulele to the side and fall back onto my bed. If Nat were here, she’d tell me not to be dramatic. Or at least, young Nat would. The one who was always grabbing my hands and telling me things would get better. She’d say, Stop moping, Violet! This is your chance at happiness—grab it!

The last version of Nat wouldn’t have cared whether I was dramatic or not. She’d only ask if I had fifty bucks to spare, and swear that this time, she’d actually pay me back.

I blink until thoughts of my sister vacate my mind entirely. The only thing that matters now is that she’s not here. She hasn’t been here in five years. She hasn’t been Phoebe’s friend in close to six. Even before she left, she’d become a whisper of herself, and I took too long to notice.

“Violet!” Mom’s voice is far away this time, like she’s downstairs. “Are you ready?”

“Yes!” I scream, but I’m not. I’m studying the bumpy ceiling, trying to find shapes. All I can see are gross cottage cheese lumps. What is that stuff even made out of? Maybe it’s toxic. Maybe it’s the reason I’m still a wreck, all these years later.

With a sigh, I sit up, letting the towel drop. Phoebe’s bridesmaid dress is knee-length. Pretty, modest, delicate. It’s not my style, and I’d rather wear anything else. I suppose I’ve made my point with the hair though, so I slip it on and find an acceptable pair of heels to match.

For Mom. For Phoebe.

After I dry my hair, I evaluate myself in the hanging mirror on my bedroom door. The dress is a tad too small, my makeup isn’t great, and my hair looks terrible. My stomach flips when I realize how ugly I look—and the fact this will be how Atlas sees me for the first time in years.

Good, I tell myself.

I haven’t spoken to Atlas in five years, and I have no intention of breaking that streak today.

Thirty-five minutes later, Mom and I pull up to the venue.

It’s disgustingly beautiful here. A winery with expansive fields and lush greenery, all nestled atop a rocky hillside.

Mom parks at the end of a depressingly long line of cars in the gravel lot, and I glare at the other arriving guests.

I’m not surprised Phoebe’s having a huge wedding, but I hate how many people I already recognize.

“Thank goodness you didn’t need to be here early,” Mom says as she touches up her lipstick. For once, she and I are in agreement.

Phoebe said I didn’t need to be here for the walk-through. I think you can figure out how to walk down the aisle and stand next to me, she’d told me on the phone. I laughed, but I’m certain she knew it was fake. I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want to attend her wedding at all, let alone be in it.

To be fair, I doubt she wants her ex-best friend’s little sister in her wedding either. This is clearly a move by her mother, a show of support for my mother. After all, we’d felt like one big family before…

Before before before befo—

“All right, let’s do this!” Mom chirps, cutting through my spiral. She checks her makeup one more time and straightens her necklace. It’s a heart pendant with loose gems contained within it. An opal one for me. A sapphire for Nat. Years ago, there was a garnet stone too.

What, I’m not special enough to be in your heart? Dad had asked. He’d said it like a joke, but we all knew it wasn’t. Within days, Mom had ordered a little stone for him too.

After everything happened, she left that garnet in its cage for months. She only took it out when I demanded it, and I’ve felt rotten ever since. Not enough to apologize. I didn’t only inherit my father’s looks, after all.

When we exit the car, neither of us speaks.

We walk through the blistering August heat in silence, and I study the stone building before us.

It’s got fancy bay windows and thick walnut pillars and a few small balconies on the upper floors.

This place is gorgeous, but the only thing I care about is whether it’s got air conditioning.

“Hey, Violet!” someone calls out as we ascend the front steps.

It’s a guy from high school, I think, and he’s definitely judging my new hair.

I can’t remember his name. He knows me though, because everyone knows the Preston family and our dirty laundry.

I beg God—doesn’t even matter which one—to kill me. Right here, right now.

No such luck.

In good news, there’s definitely air conditioning.

The temperature drops several degrees as we pass through the open, arched doorway, and my skin sings with relief.

The building’s interior is simple but beautiful with an open layout and mid-century decor.

Phoebe’s cousins linger near the entryway, and they’re quick to introduce themselves to Mom.

As she chats with them, she flits around a massive round table, so overflowing with gifts she struggles to find a place for our present.

I wonder what “we” got Phoebe and her new husband.

Clusters of people linger nearby, and in the background, an elaborate dining area is set for the reception. Black tablecloths. White rose centerpieces. Pale blue dinnerware.

As Mom socializes, I linger pathetically in the background, slumping against the nearest wall like a stubborn toddler. People continue to filter in from outside, and I’m not surprised to see multiple of Atlas’s friends. As if it’s his freaking wedding, rather than his sister’s.

“Can you believe she’s getting married already?

” Mom asks when she returns to my side. She loops her arm through mine and leads me deeper into the building.

I can’t remember the last time we’ve touched, even casually like this.

It takes all my effort not to squirm. “She’s only twenty-three. That’s so young.”

“Weren’t you, like, sixteen?”

“I was nineteen,” Mom says. Then, under her breath, “and look how that turned out.”

This time, I don’t reply.

“Oh good, you’re here!”

We both turn to the sound of Rachel Gleskie’s bubbly voice.

She’s impressively normal-looking to the point it’s hard to settle on any one feature.

Her straight brown hair is longer than the last time I saw her.

She’s grinning broadly, and before I’ve fully registered her presence, she’s pulled us both into a crushing hug.

“Hi Rachel. I’m so sorry we’re late.”

I’m not, I want to say. Nat should be Phoebe’s maid of honor, not you.