That was all of the warning I got. Within three hours, we’d made it most of the way to the lake, all of us in one car. Including my mom. And Lily. And every ax Lily had to grind with me.
I’d never been claustrophobic, but ignoring my mother while Lily ignored me was suffocating. Think about something else, I told myself, and my brain obliged.
I thought about my hands in Nick’s hair.
I thought about leaving him at the gala.
I thought about the fact that he hadn’t replied to any of the texts I’d sent him since. Presumably, he still needed an in to polite society. He needed me. I’d seen My Fair Lady. I’d seen Pretty Woman. This wasn’t a one-off kind of thing. And if he still needed my help . . .
If he still wanted it . . .
Even if it meant nothing, at least it would distract me from everything else. As much as I wasn’t of the Campbell Ames school of thought on working out issues, the idea of touching Nick’s hair again—touching him again—wasn’t entirely without appeal.
I looked down at my phone. Headed to the lake. My fingers typed out the message. Let me know if you need an escort for Fourth of July. I hit send right before looking up and catching sight of my mom. She would have been thrilled to know that I was texting a boy.
The thought made me sick to my stomach.
How many men had I seen her fall for? My childhood was filled with optimistic starts, followed alternatingly by boredom and broken hearts. Texting and dancing and touching wasn’t for girls like me.
I put my phone away and my brain on lockdown. Fortunately, we arrived at the lake house before my memory could start torturing me with anything else.
“Ellie, why don’t you and Sawyer take the turret room?” Lillian deftly avoided allowing Lily to kick me out of our formerly shared room, as the lot of us exited the car.
“Lily can bunk in my room,” John David hollered, even though he was standing maybe four feet away from the rest of us. “I’ll mostly be in the garage, working on the golf cart. I’m going to need someone to take me to Walmart to get supplies. Lots of supplies. This parade won’t win itself, people.”
“I’ll go,” I volunteered. Less time with Lily, less time with my mom.
“There’s no need to put yourself out, Sawyer,” Lily told me. “I’ll take John David.”
That was the first thing she’d said to me in two weeks, and the subtext hit me harder than an insult. There was no need to put myself out, because I wasn’t family.
Not her family.
Not anymore.
The view from the turret room hadn’t changed. Even though it was the middle of the week, there was already plenty of traffic out on the water.
“There’ll be fireworks tomorrow.” My mom threw her bag on one of the beds. I heard her flop down beside it. “Hundreds of boats will be anchored in that cove to watch. I’m sure John David is looking forward to the F-16 flyover—or at least, that’s what he’ll be looking forward to after the golf cart parade.”
“And the pie-eating contest,” I said, turning away from the window. I spotted a rose sitting at the end of my bed and another one sitting at the end of Lily’s. There were envelopes attached.
Details about tonight, I thought. Considering that the last White Glove event had ended with Lily in the hospital and the one before that had led to the discovery of a human corpse, I wasn’t sure opening those envelopes was worth the risk.
“Do I want to know?” my mom asked, glancing at the roses.
The hopeful note in her voice told me she did want to know. She wanted me to talk to her. She wanted me to be her best friend and confidante and vice versa.
I wasn’t sure if Aunt Olivia had invited her here to punish me for the way I’d interacted with Ana, or if, in the wake of Uncle J.D.’s infidelity, my aunt had somehow decided it was time to bury other axes.
Ultimately, it didn’t really matter.
“Sawyer,” my mom said. “I’m trying here. Really trying. Just tell me what I can do.”
Go back in time, and tell me the truth. I couldn’t say those words. I couldn’t even think them without feeling guilty. That was the most impossible thing about this whole situation. No matter what she’d done or hadn’t done—what she did or didn’t do going forward—part of me would always feel like it was my job to make it better.
“Did Aunt Olivia tell you her husband is having an affair?” I asked, managing to keep my voice even and not betray the emotions churning inside me, threatening to erupt.
“She did, in fact,” my mom said. I could see her bracing herself for me to say something to the effect that this wasn’t the first time.
I didn’t. I was so tired of being angry. I didn’t want to hurt her any more than I wanted loving her to hurt.
So instead, I let my fingers curl around the windowsill for a moment, and then turned back to her. “Did Aunt Olivia tell you the person he’s having an affair with is Ana Gutierrez?”