Chapter Two
Seven years later
I woke with a start, my eyelids snapping open without warning or hesitation; a flashing, Bang! Hello, Olivia, welcome back! Outside the plane’s window, a wet slice of jungle flashed past. Palm trees interlaced with deep pockets of shadow.
My phone buzzed on my lap. I knuckled the sleep from my eyes and grabbed it, scrolling past the unread text messages and news alerts flooding the screen in favor of the envelope icon at the bottom.
An email I’d already read at least two dozen times since it hit my inbox two weeks earlier.
The email that had me sitting on this plane now.
My thumb hovered over it—and clicked.
To: SurvivorPodmail; livmiller;
From: QMiller@
Subject: I’M GETTING MARRIED!!!
Via — Hi! How are you? Doing well, I hope?
It’s been far too long. Look, I’m not really sure how to start, other than to get right to it—I’m sorry for how everything ended with us.
We both said a lot of cruel things we didn’t mean.
I said a lot of cruel things. I didn’t know how to deal with my life back then.
I couldn’t make sense of it. I couldn’t cope.
Which is why I ran …
I paused and thought of Quinn. I hadn’t laid eyes on my sister in what, four years now? Five? I pictured the last time I saw her, the Las Vegas scarecrow, throwing me out of her Section 8 house with her cheekbones sawing beneath her skin like knife points, her voice leaking out in a tight rasp.
You’re dead to me, Olivia! I don’t ever want to talk to you again!
Then she’d slammed the door in my face, leaving my plea for her to return to Columbus with me and get her life together rotting in my throat. And now here she was, diving straight out of the blue, bomb-shelling me with an engagement announcement and an invitation.
I sighed and continued to read.
I needed some space to heal, you know? I just needed time. But that doesn’t make what I did right. I’m sorry for vanishing like that. It was an awful thing to do. I can see that now.
I’ve met the best group of people, Via. The best. I’ve grown in so many ways because of them. The past only controls us if we let it. And I’m done living in the past. I’m ready to move on, and I hope you are, too.
Which is why I’m writing …
I’m getting married! My fiancé’s name is Bryce. He’s intelligent, kind, hot, and very funny. We have so much in common. He proposed last month, in St. Martin. Of course, I said yes! (In a place like that, coming from that man, how could I not?) And you know who I wanted to tell first?
You, Via. I wanted to tell you.
Listen, I think it’s time we patch things up. Bryce has scheduled a cruise, and I want you to come. It’s going to be amazing. Please say you will. Call me, and I’ll fill you in on the details. I can’t wait to hear your voice.
Love, Q.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket. It didn’t even sound like Quinn, the letter written with the cotton-candy cadence of a sixteen-year-old. I could practically hear her sing-song pitch dancing up from the letters. I said yes! How could I not? Let’s go on a cruise!
“First time to Puerto Rico?” The question came from the guy in the seat to my left. He sported a heavily veined nose and the watery gaze of a functional alcoholic.
“Yes,” I mumbled.
“You have to try the pernil,” the man added. “It’s delicious.”
“Mm,” I replied, glancing out the window again, telling myself, do not engage.
Something about my face invites conversation: With wide eyes, and an easy smile, I’m approachable—no resting bitch face here!
—which made men like this one think they actually stood a chance.
Honestly though, even if he looked like Ryan Gosling, I wouldn’t be interested.
After what happened to me, I had issues with men.
Being strangled and stuffed in a trunk will do that to you.
A tinny voice announced our arrival through the speaker and I returned my attention to the phone.
At first, I thought the email was a joke.
A cruel hoax by someone in the media looking to make a few bucks off an emotional response.
A quick, fuck off, asshole, they could splash over the gossip sites, or sell to some B-level media outlet.
It had happened before, especially after my autobiography dropped.
But Fighting for Air: The Olivia Miller Story released years ago, and I couldn’t remember the last time someone reached out for an interview.
Besides, tragedy has a short shelf life in America, and mine was long past the expiration date.
A sudden ding! extinguished the seatbelt light, and fifteen minutes later I stood near the baggage belt, waiting for my suitcase with a cup of dark roast. I took a sip and closed my eyes.
The Quinn I’d left in Vegas five years ago was the definition of a hot mess.
What would she look like now? She’d long ago obliterated all of her social media accounts, so I had to imagine her face—a perfect pair of lips drowning in a nest of frown lines.
Nostrils scabbed pink from drugs. Eyes cupped in dark circles.
Hair pulled back into a tight ponytail greased with neglect.
My sister, the burnout. How she fit with Bryce Cullen was beyond me.
Finding her fiancé online wasn’t hard. A quick Google search after my call with Quinn revealed a diamond-handed finance bro with pearl-white teeth and a body that looked like it had never ingested a single gram of sugar.
Polo shirts without a single wrinkle. Olive skin and dimples.
A cleft chin. Sandy blond hair thick with product.
Hot was an understatement because Bryce was beyond perfect.
Which, I guess, was the other reason I’d decided to come.
Simple curiosity. How the hell had she snagged this guy?
I trashed the coffee and retrieved my suitcase, then wheeled it to the doors and took a deep breath.
You can do this, Olivia. You can do hard things.
It was my father’s favorite expression, one I’d adopted long ago, thinking it would give me courage, but it never did.
It only made me feel worse; he’d never been great at doing hard things.
Outside, the humidity hit me like a fist, instantly teasing beads of sweat from my pores. People rushed past, way too many people, Ubers and taxis and bodies mixing into one big wall of noise and light and sound.
And no Quinn.
“You want a ride?” a man with silver teeth called through an open window. “I take you where you wanna go.”
“Thank you. No, I’m fine.”
“Oye. Get in. I’ll cut you a deal, mami.”
“No, really I’m—”
“Via?”
I turned toward the voice. A woman stood behind me, wearing a sleek black skirt and a white fitted top.
A waterfall of strawberry-blonde hair fell over her shoulders and pulled my gaze lower toward a set of bronzed legs and toned calves.
She tilted a pair of oversized sunglasses toward the bridge of her nose and stared at me with eyes the color of spring grass, eyes I’d recognize anywhere.
My mouth fell open. “Quinn?”
Her smile widened and she closed the distance between us.
“Oh my god, it is you,” she said, enveloping me in a rib-crushing hug.
I hung slack in the embrace, limp. This woman looked nothing like the shuffling zombie I remembered, staring out at the world through a pair of filmy, pill-addled eyes.
This woman was vibrant and gorgeous. This woman was alive, looking like the A-list actress Quinn had always aspired to be.
And she was hugging me—not exactly the welcome I’d expected.
I slithered from her grip. “You look great, Quinn. Really.”
“Thank you.” She set her hands on her hips and appraised me, her head tilting to the side. A diamond the size of a beetle winked from her ring finger; I guessed three carats. “And you haven’t changed a bit.”
I peered down at my frayed jeans, scuffed Converse, and vintage Nirvana shirt which clashed aggressively with her dress.
My cheeks flared. An apology crept onto my tongue but I wouldn’t let it out.
What did I have to apologize for? Still, I wanted to.
It’s what felt natural in the moment. A way to break the ice. I’m sorry, Quinn. For everything.
“God, it’s good to see you, Via! So good.”
“It’s good to see you, too.”
“C’mon. I can’t wait for you to meet Bryce.”
I reached for my suitcase, but Quinn took my hand and tugged me forward before I could grab the handle. “Don’t bother. Javier’s got it.”
A man with sand-colored skin I hadn’t noticed until that moment stepped past me and took the bag with a curt nod. I stared at him, confused. Quinn has staff now?
“It’s fine, Via. Let him do his job.”
“Olivia,” I corrected.
“What?”
“I go by Olivia now.” I hated my nickname—Via. Only two people had ever called me Via: Quinn and my father. And my father was dead. Via died with him.
Quinn frowned. “Okay, I’ll try to remember that. Come on.”
I followed her in a daze, watching her walk, still attempting to connect this Quinn to the hollow-cheeked version who lived rent-free in my mind. I couldn’t reconcile the two people—it looked like she’d aged in reverse.
She came to a stop in front of a white stretch limo parked a few feet from the curb.
“We’re taking that?” I asked.
Quinn’s forehead bunched like it was a stupid question, like everyone in Puerto Rico took Maserati stretch limos from the airport.
“I told you this trip was going to be amazing.” The tone of her voice rose on the last word, matching the flowery cadence of her email. My sister, who’d communicated in monotone for as long as I could remember, was now speaking in uptalk. When did it happen? When had she changed?
I hesitated and she cocked her head. “Hey, are you okay?”
I blinked. “Yeah, fine.” My throat constricted. I couldn’t move. Being here, with this new version of Quinn, after so many years apart, suddenly felt overwhelming. I didn’t know if I had it in me to wade back into our past.
“Quinn, I—”
“Listen, Olivia,” she interrupted, “before you say anything, hear me out. I know this is a lot for you. It is for me, too. I must have rewritten the email I sent you at least thirty times. I almost didn’t send it at all.
But I meant what I said. I want you in my life, and I think you want the same. Let’s give it a chance, okay?”
For some reason I couldn’t pin down, I wanted to say no. I wanted to dash back into the airport while I still had the chance. But the way she was looking at me, with so much sincerity in her eyes, so much need, prevented me from replying with anything other than, “Okay.”
“Good. And truly, this is going to be so much fun. Just wait. Bryce has so many activities lined up for us. You’re going to love every minute of this trip, I swear.
” She held up her little finger in an echo of our long-ago childhood ritual: Pinkie swear?
My hand moved on its own, and I watched my finger twine with hers.
“Promise?” I heard myself say.
Quinn smiled. “On my life.”