Jaclyn had been holed up in her father’s mansion for weeks, parading around in flannel pajamas whenever she dared depart her childhood bedroom.
Well, bedroom was a bit of an understatement. The average bedroom is to Jaclyn’s as a kayak is to a forty-foot yacht. It was her own studio apartment, complete with fridge and fireplace. Jaclyn sightings were scarce, occurring every eighteen to thirty hours as rations ran low.
When she was growing up, this was her happy place. She’d never been so grateful for the solace of pink ruffled curtains or Chicago posters.
The band, not the city.
This isn’t about Richard.
She jumped off her bed and tore the posters from her wall, crumpling them up before tossing them into the trash.
Damn that son of a bitch. When will these senseless casualties end?
Determined to drown in her sorrow, she chose death by cookie dough. She had to stop watching live television. Too many reminders. And his speech.
“Jaclyn Long is the finest woman I know. Being friends with someone of her caliber is a privilege.”
What was all that shit? Was he mocking me? Denying our relationship without actually saying the words? How very Richard of him.
She was half a tub of raw dough down and deep into binge watching a random string of chick flicks when a knock interrupted her sulking.
“I’m fine, Dad. I just need a little time.”
Six or seven years should do.
Tears threatened again, and she scooped a spoonful of cookie dough to her mouth and dabbed her face with a well-worn tissue.
Again, more knocking.
Jaclyn huffed, then heaved herself off the king-size bed, tossing the shreds of Kleenex into the trash. Amidst another series of knocks, she swung open the door. Wide-eyed, she whipped the spoon from her mouth and pocketed the cookie dough in her cheek to speak.
“M-Margot?” she stuttered. “What are you doing here?”
Margot moved through the door and hugged her hard, then gave Jaclyn a lighthearted sneer. “What? Can’t I take a little time out of global galivanting to visit my sister?”