I sleep dreamlessly for the first time in months. I tell myself it has nothing to do with the man tangled in sheets on the other side of my bedroom wall. Just the knowledge that he’s there, one suite away, is surely not enough to negate my nightmares. That would be absurd.
Wouldn’t it?
The weak sun shining through my glass terrace doors tells me it’s late afternoon; I’ve slept most of the day away. After a quick shower, I yank on an old pair of ripped skinny jeans and a thin sage green sweater, stuffing my feet into sheepskin slippers to avoid the chilly stone floors. Even with the heat on full blast, the palace is colder than an icebox.
I don’t bother with makeup or blow-drying my hair; I’m far too eager to check on Chloe. On my way to her suite, I pass Carter’s door on stocking-feet, wondering if he’s still asleep inside. If things were more normal between us, I’d poke my head in and take a look. But as they currently stand — somewhere between complicated and clusterfuck — I don’t dare disturb him.
With Chloe, I have no such qualms about invading personal space. I turn the knob slowly, trying not to make excessive noise as I swing open her door and glance inside. Sure enough, she’s still unconscious; a tuft of red hair sticks up between two pillows, a body-shaped lump is splayed diagonally across the mattress. I can hear the rhythmic sound of her light snores, assuring me she’s still alive and well.
Relieved, I close the door behind me and head down the hallway, in the general direction of the castle kitchens. My stomach is rumbling with hunger — such an unfamiliar sensation, I hardly recognize it. I can’t remember the last time I had an actual appetite; the last time eating felt like a joyful culinary experience instead of a chore to be trudged through for pure sustenance.
Patricia, the palace chef, will be thrilled by this development. Her talents have gone to utter waste over the past few months.
I’m cutting through the throne room, my mind spinning with thoughts of blueberry pancake stacks and warm raspberry scones, when my eyes snag on a corridor to my left. It’s one I haven’t dared walk down in quite some time. My feet move of their own accord, turning from the path that will take me to kitchens toward the one that leads to the South Wing.
The King’s Wing, as the servants are fond of calling it.
This is the only part of the castle I didn’t visit during my many months of insomniac exploration. When Linus died so suddenly, something about coming here felt wrong. Like I was trespassing on his personal space, even though he was no longer alive to give a damn.
I don’t allow myself to question why it seems like less of a violation today; I simply turn and start walking. I take my time — my feet unhurried as they move over the ancient flagstones, my eyes scanning from the narrow, medieval-style window slots to the ornate wall sconces.
Rounding a bend, I pause when an impressive set of wooden doors comes into view: my father’s study. Just the sight of the heavy brass knocker is enough to steal my breath. My stomach twists in tandem with my hand as I grasp the lion-headed door knob and push inward.
It looks just the same as I remember it. That shouldn’t be a surprise — no one’s been in here. I gave strict orders the maids weren’t even allowed to clean, lest they disturb anything my father left behind.
A fine layer of dust has settled over everything. I run my finger along the nearest bookshelf, the top of his wingback chair, the edge of his mahogany desk, leaving a visible trail behind as I make my way deeper into the sanctum. Signs of life slowly materialize: there’s a half-empty glass of scotch sitting beside a ledger; a box of cigars waiting to be smoked on the low table by the fireplace. I notice a pen on the floor, dropped in haste and left behind.
It’s strange to see these lingering traces of Linus. My father was not a man I knew well, let alone understood with any degree of confidence. We were only just beginning to get comfortable around each other when he slipped away from me forever, taking with him any real chance for a fulfilling father-daughter relationship.
The doctors said it was a stroke — one so massive, he likely felt no pain at all when it happened. An unavoidable end, triggered by an arbitrary external stressor: in Linus’ case, the Vasgaard Square attack.
It could’ve happened at any point, the medical examiner assured me. If not today, then tomorrow or the next. He was walking around with a time bomb in his head. It was only a matter of when it would detonate.
I lower myself into my father’s chair with a tentative plop that sends a plume of dust into the air. Sneezing particles out of my nose, I reach out and run my fingers across the page of the ledger in front of me. It’s still open to a half-written page. I notice a splotch of ink on the lower left corner — a spot where the fountain pen lingered just a moment too long, bleeding into the paper. I wonder if this is what he was working on the moment disaster struck.
Am I staring at the last lines he ever etched?
Leaning forward, I scan the sheet for anything of significance, but it’s merely a spreadsheet of names and numbers — a budgetary breakdown of castle employee salaries, from the look of it.
Rather a dry final contribution to society.
Disappointment curdles in the pit of my stomach, sour as spoiled milk. I’m not sure what I was hoping to find by finally coming here. Some conclusive clue into my father’s character? An epilogue chapter for a story cut short? What would offer me the clarity I’m so plainly seeking?
Perhaps a handwritten letter detailing all the mistakes he ever made as a man — chief among them, the neglect of his only child.
I snort lightly.
What delusional world are you living in, Emilia?
This isn’t a Hollywood movie or a fairy tale. This is real life. And the more I experience of it, the more I realize life rarely follows any sort of script. Endings aren’t always conclusive, let alone happy. I may never get the closure I crave when it comes to my father. The sooner I make peace with that, the more content I’ll be.
I spend a few more minutes digging around Linus’ desk, trying my best not to disturb anything too greatly — an archaeologist uncovering clues without altering the integrity of the site. When I leave, I take only two small souvenirs with me: a leather-bound journal I cannot yet bring myself to pry open and an antique silver cigar lighter, engraved with a double-headed lion. The Lancaster crest. I don’t smoke, but that’s not really the point.
Despite my best intentions, I’d gotten my hopes up about what I might discover when I finally worked up the courage to come in here. Feeling oddly anticlimactic, I tuck my treasures against my chest and push the desk chair back in, precisely the way I found it. There’s nothing for me in this place. No new connections to be made. No posthumous glimpses of clarity or comfort.
Be grateful for the few memories you have with him, Emilia.
Few is far better than none.
My slippers are so thick, I barely feel the crunch at first; the slightest crinkle of paper beneath a sole as I step around an ornate end table on my way to the door. Glancing down, I see the corner of something sticking out beneath my foot. When my fingers close on the paper, its glossy surface smooth under my grip, I realize it’s a photograph — the contents of which make my heart lurch inside my chest. Because…
It’s a photograph of me.
Snapped from afar on the night of my coronation as Germania’s Crown Princess, judging by the gold ballgown I’m wearing, this is a candid angle I’ve never seen before — certainly not one of the official press photos released to the public, where I appear so stuffy and staged I might as well be a mannequin.
In this picture, I’m not looking at the lens. My gaze is trained elsewhere, off-camera. There’s a faraway look on my face, a lazy half-smile tugging at my lips. I wonder what I was looking at when the photographer clicked his shutter down; who inspired that dazed, almost dreamy expression, immortalized forever on film.
Fingers shaking, I flip over the photograph and examine the back side. There are four words written there in a messy, masculine scrawl. As I read them, my eyes begin to sting and all my earlier thoughts about this detour being a waste of time go right out of my head.
“My extraordinary daughter, Emilia.”
The word ‘extraordinary’ is underlined.
Twice.
Knees feeling suddenly weak, I sink into the closest armchair — the one that still smells faintly of aftershave and cigar smoke and fine ink — and press the photograph to my chest. Directly over my heart, as if to absorb the words into my skin.
And there, in a dusty office, for the first time since I heard the words “The king is dead” three months ago… I allow myself a moment to grieve. Not as a subject mourning her monarch. Not as an heir mourning her predecessor. But as a daughter, lamenting the loss of her father.
I grieve for the man I almost knew. For the relationship we almost had. For the future that almost was.
In another life…
It might’ve been extraordinary.
“Your Majesty! Wait!”
The cheery voice chases me down the hall. I wince, hurrying my pace, but it’s no use — she’s nearly caught up to me, now.
“Your Majesty!” She rounds the corner so close on my heels, I have no choice but to stop. “I’ve been calling after you for nearly three corridors — didn’t you hear me?”
“I must’ve been lost in thought,” I lie, a falsely bright smile pasted on my lips. “Did you need something, Caulfield?”
“If you have a free minute, I wanted to discuss your visit to the party at Westgate last night.”
“Oh?”
Her blonde asymmetrical bob sways with the force of her enthusiastic nodding. Behind the transparent lenses of her hipster glasses, she looks far younger than her thirty-two years. “From my monitoring of social media, mentions of your name and all pertinent hashtags—”
“I have hashtags?”
She startles, as though the question is shocking. “Of course you have hashtags, Your Majesty.” She whips out her smartphone, toggles a familiar app, and shows me a stream of content. “See? Some of them are still trending within the country, but we had a good deal of worldwide traction last night as well. Quite exciting, don’t you agree? Let’s see here… We’ve got #QueenEmilia, #HerRoyalMajesty, #QueenofGermania, and my personal favorite, #QueenE. I think the familiarity of that particular tag makes you seem more accessible to your fans.”
“Fans?”
“Fans.” She nods emphatically again. “And, may I just say, your decision to forego wearing the customary elbow-length gloves last night? Stroke. Of. Genius. People simply cannot stop talking about it! There hasn’t been a scandal like this in the royal family since Queen Abigail’s step-niece got pregnant out of wedlock, back in the eighties. And she wasn’t even a Lancaster blood relative! But this ‘Free the Forearm’ campaign of yours is just radical. You’re an overnight sensation! No. Not a sensation. An icon.” She starts tapping her phone screen aggressively, making notes for later reference. “Icon has a nice ring to it. Don’t you agree? It sends the message that you’re revolutionary but still regal.”
I blink slowly, struggling to process everything I’m hearing. The fact that I haven’t even had coffee yet today is suddenly glaringly apparent. “Caulfield.”
“Mmm?”
“Did you just say… Free the Forearm?”
“Mmm. Why? Not a fan? Don’t worry, we’re still working on the official branding. How do you feel about ‘Shove the Glove’ — too aggressive, don’t you agree? Never fear, I’ll have my interns hammer out some fresh ideas…”
“You have interns?”
“Two.”
I attempt to form words, but nothing comes out. Caulfield doesn’t seem to notice, though; she’s too busy singing the praises of the interns she hired without bothering to ask for permission. “They both have marketing degrees from Vasgaard University. Excellent references. Big online presence. Stellar work-ethic. Oh, and they’ve signed iron-clad NDAs, of course.”
“Of course,” I agree, as though I’m not totally baffled by the woman standing before me. “But what exactly do these interns do here?”
She beams. “Monitor your Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram presence, mainly. Even I must sleep sometimes, Your Majesty — but the internet never does!”
“Can we back up for a second? I’m just still not sure I understand.”
“Understand what, My Queen?”
“Why, exactly, are people tweeting about me and my gloves — or lack thereof?” Frankly, after everything that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours, the fact that I didn’t wear formal gloves to Alden’s party seems inconsequential.
Caulfield laughs lightly. “You are something of a global phenomenon, Your Majesty. Your story is incredible. I wasn’t going to mention this to you until I had more specifics, but… Oh, what the hell!” She leans in, whispering like a schoolgirl. “Several Hollywood producers have already been in touch with me about the potential for a movie adaptation of your story. I personally think we should hold out for Netflix to make an offer, though. Have you seen The Crown? Queen Elizabeth will look like an old bag of rags, next to you…”
My mouth falls open.
Did she seriously just say that?!
“Oh, listen to me, getting ahead of myself.” She waves away her own words. “The important thing is, your appearance last night generated lots of traction, as I predicted. Several million people are actively tweeting about you. Some of them are negative comments, of course — everyone’s a critic, these days! — but my analysis of the content overall seems overwhelmingly favorable. The millennials simply adored seeing you flout convention by ditching the royal dress code. Power to the people, and all that nonsense!” She winks. “As for the other age brackets… in truth, I’m surprised anyone over the age of fifty even understands how to create a Twitter account, but apparently some of them have figured it out. Your vintage silver dress was a particular hit among the older demographic. A callback to the days of old — assuming they can even remember that far into their pre-dementia days. Senile subjects’ support is still support, though! We’ll take all we can get.”
My hands ball into fists at my sides — mainly to keep from reaching out and throttling the idiot woman chirping away in front of me.
Caulfield remains blissfully unaware of my growing irritation, typing diligently into her phone. “All in all, I’d call this a win on both sides of the curve, Your Majesty! Didn’t I tell you — the people are just pleased to see you out and about after such a long hiatus from the public eye! Keep this up, your Instagram follower count will surpass Prince Harry and that tacky American he married in no time!”
I’m so stunned, I hardly know what to address first — the fact that this woman legitimately thinks it’s appropriate to sell off the tragedy of my life to money-hungry television studios? The creation of multiple unauthorized social media accounts? The hiring of staff members I’ve never even met? The fact that she addressed the world’s longest-reigning British monarch as an old bag of rags?
I decide to start simply, striving to keep my voice level. “How did they even get photographs of me last night? I certainly didn’t post any, Caulfield.”
“Well, of course not, silly. Organic, viral content can never come straight from you — it has to be generated by others to seem authentic.” Her head lifts from the screen long enough to shoot a grin at me. For the first time, I notice there’s a strangely maniacal bent to it. “That’s why I tipped off the paparazzi. They were camped out in the bushes at Westgate, snapping pictures of your arrival.”
I go rigid with tension.
She doesn’t seem to notice. “The rest was easy-peasy — do you have any idea how many people at that party posted photographs and videos of you on their social media pages? I should put them on retainer, they make my job so much easier!”
The strangest feeling is stirring in my chest — a cold front of disbelief colliding with a warm front of rage, condensing to form what can only be described as a storm of absolute fury.
“Caulfield,” I say slowly, teeth clenched.
“Mmm?” She’s smiling down at her phone screen, where video snippet after video snippet of my dance with Alden play out in fifteen second loops. She looks quite pleased with herself; totally unaware of my impending wrath. “What is it, My Queen?”
“You’re fired.”
Her phone, which I thought was permanently affixed to her fingers, clatters to the corridor floor. “What?”
“You. Are. Fired.”
“But, Your Majesty— There must be some kind of misunderstanding—”
“No, I understand perfectly, Caulfield. I understand that you have violated the agreement we made when I hired you to help manage my public image. I understand that, instead of protecting my privacy, you have treated it as a commodity to be sold to the highest bidder.”
“My Queen—”
“I am not done,” I cut her off savagely, leaning in to maintain eye contact. She looks like she wants to sink into the stones and disappear. “But you are. Please take your interns and your social media campaigns and your plans for the TV-movie adaptation of my life and go. You can turn over the passwords to whatever profiles you’ve created to my personal guard on your way out.”
Caulfield deflates visibly before me, a birthday balloon leaking helium five days after the party’s end. “I apologize if I overstepped. I was only trying to help create a groundswell of support for you, Your Majesty. I know things have been difficult lately; I wanted to minimize that by whatever means possible.” She pushes her glasses slightly higher on the bridge of her nose. “If you give me another chance, I’ll show you I can do this job in a way that better suits your needs.”
I hesitate a beat.
Am I being too harsh, here?
“I mean, we don’t have to do the movie right away,” she tells me in what I’m sure she believes is a diplomatic tone. “We can push the timeframe six months or so. The producers I spoke to were hoping for a Christmas release, to maximize revenue over the holidays… but summer is as good a time as any for a trip to the theater.” Her voice drops dramatically, mimicking a movie trailer voiceover. “Hidden Lion: The Untold Story of a Secret Queen. That’s just a working title, for now, but I think it really sizzles. Don’t you agree?”
I take a deep breath, summoning calm. Then another — in through my nose, out through my mouth. Once more. And once more after that. Unfortunately, this exercise does very little to tame my temper.
“Caulfield?”
“Y-yes?” she stammers, eyes going wide behind her thick frames when she hears the wrath plain-as-day in my voice.
“See yourself out. Now.”
I turn and walk away before I can do something rash, like smash my heel down on the screen of her smartphone with all my might.
Rogue Royal: A Queen Without Council
How’s that for a damn working title?
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself.” Chloe’s smile is wobbly, but at least she’s smiling. I take that as a good sign as I approach her bed, the food tray balanced in my hands. My grip is surprisingly steady, considering an hour ago I was brimming with anger at my former advisor.
Amazing what a full stomach of fresh-baked scones can do for one’s disposition.
“I brought you something to eat. I figured you might be hungry.” I pause. “Don’t worry, I didn’t attempt to cook. This is Patricia’s doing.”
“Thanks, E.”
I set the tray down on her bedside table and settle myself on the end of her bed. She makes no move to pick up the sandwich or soup I’ve brought her. She’s so thin, I want to shove it into her hands and watch her devour every bite, just to assure myself she’s actually eating. I knit my knuckles together to contain the impulse as I lift my eyes to hers.
“How are you feeling?”
“Honestly?” She laughs without humor. “Like a dumpster fire.”
I wince. “Sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? You didn’t make me snort a fuck-ton of coke followed by what I think was a tab of molly, then wash it down with at least four vodka sodas. That was all me.”
“How much of last night do you remember?”
“Bits and pieces.” Her head tilts. “I remember you standing in that room with all the tapped kegs. Hugging me. Telling me you wanted me to come home.” She swallows harshly. “I don’t remember how we got here, though, or how I got into these god-awful pajamas.”
“Hey!” I protest, glaring at her oversized t-shirt. The phrase NAMASTE IN BED is emblazoned across its front. “That is my favorite sleep shirt! Just because it’s not the designer lingerie you usually wear…”
“I usually don’t wear anything.” She winks with a shadow of her old humor. “Naked sleep is the best sleep.”
“Trust me, I saw so much naked Chloe last night, I’m set for life.”
Her brows lift. “What?”
“Who do you think helped you shower and put you to bed?”
She groans. “God, I’m sorry. I’m such a fucking mess. You shouldn’t have to deal with this shit, E. You’ve got enough on your plate.”
“Right now, the most important thing on my plate is you,” I inform her. “I meant what I told you last night — you’re my family. There’s nothing I won’t do to help you. That includes shampooing questionable substances out of your hair.”
She winces. “Gross.”
“Totally.”
“I guess I owe you big time now, huh?”
“You don’t owe me anything, Chloe. But you owe it to yourself to figure out why you’re using till the point of blacking out on disgusting bar floors.” I tread carefully, not wanting to push her too hard right off the bat. “You’ve never been averse to the party scene, but from what I can see… things have reached a new level. Not necessarily a healthy level, if you want my opinion.”
She’s curled into a ball, knobby knees pulled to her chest. She stares at the bedspread so intently, you’d think it were a Monet.
“I’m not trying to lecture you, Chloe. God knows, I’m the last person in the world who should be lecturing anyone about anything. I’m a freaking mess, too.” I shake my head lightly. “But I’m worried about you. So is your brother.”
“My brother.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes lift to mine, slightly narrowed. “You know, I’ve always found that a little funny.”
“What?”
“You call me your sister. But never once have I heard you refer to Carter as your brother. He’s always very clearly my brother… never yours.”
I swallow nervously. “Your point being?”
“No point. I just find it interesting.”
I’m suddenly glad she only remembers fragments of last night. She’d be deeply mortified if she knew half the things she said to Carter about me.
I’m not the one who needs an intervention — you are.
You’re the addict, big brother.
You just can’t see it because your drug doesn’t come in a pill or a bottle.
It’s a girl you can’t have, and it’s fucking killing you.
I clear my throat. “I’m glad you’re here. Did I say that already?”
“You might’ve. My memory is a bit hazy.”
“Then, once more for the official record books: I’m happy you’re back home, where you belong.” I reach out and tentatively take her hand in mine. Her skin is ice-cold and far too clammy. “I’m sorry for ever telling you to leave. For making you feel like I didn’t want you in my life. It was a mistake. I was just so blinded by grief, I couldn’t see it. And by the time I pulled myself out of that spiral… you were already long gone.”
Chloe nods. “I understand. Trust me. I’ve made plenty of messes in my own life — drug related and otherwise. You don’t have to apologize to me, E. We’re good.”
“Fine. But can I do one other thing?”
“Depends what it is.”
“Can I be mushy for a second?”
“What do you— oof!” Her question cuts off abruptly as I haul her into my arms. Neither of us is what you’d call touchy-feely; we’ve only ever hugged a handful of times. But I don’t care about any of that right now. I just tighten my hold, squeezing her until she’s complaining about cracked ribs. Her voice is laced with a laugh, though, so I ignore her protests completely.
We’re still wrapped in an embrace when her bedroom door swings inward. We both turn to look as Carter crosses the threshold. He’s shirtless, his hair still damp from a shower, a pair of dark gray sweatpants slung low on his hips. It takes all my self-control to keep from gaping at the sight of his rippling abdominal muscles.
Christ.
I have a distinct memory of the last time I saw them — specifically, of my mouth tracing each indentation, down down down, a slow path from his sternum to his belly button to his—
“Big brother!” Chloe exclaims, shattering my NSFW thought process. “You’re here too?”
Carter scowls darkly. “Of course I’m here too. Who the fuck do you think hauled you out of that club?”
“Um. Emilia?”
“And who do you think told Emilia you were at that club?”
“Ah.” She smiles wanly. “Well. Thanks for making my humiliation a full family affair. Next time maybe we can just go camping or something, though.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he gives her a patented look of older sibling disapproval. “Don’t be cute. There’s nothing cute about this situation and you know it, Chloe.”
“Sorry, I wasn’t aware I was being cute. I’ll work on being less adorable starting immediately.”
“I mean it. You aren’t sixteen anymore. You’re an adult. You need to start taking better care of yourself,” he says sternly. “No more benders. No more going off the rails, falling off the wagon. No more of this half-sober, half-hot-mess line you’ve been treading.”
“No more?” She laughs. “Or else… what, exactly? Are you going to take away my bong? Institute a curfew? Am I grounded, Dad?”
Carter’s jaw clenches at her flippancy. “I’m not your father, Chloe, but I might as well be. I am the only person who’s had your back since the day you took your first breath in this world.”
“Isn’t that sort of your obligation as my older brother?” Her nose scrunches. “Aren’t you required by law to be an utter pain in my ass?”
Carter doesn’t even crack a smile. “Just because I’ve been there in the past to clean up your messes doesn’t mean I always will be. How many times do you expect me to stand on the sidelines, waiting to step in when you inevitably decide to destroy yourself?”
She flinches. “If I’m such a burden, just leave already. I don’t need you.”
“That’s rich, given how many times I’ve pulled you back from the brink.” His laugh is so bitter, it almost makes me wince. “You know, if you’re going to keep doing this, you could at least have the decency to let me know in advance, so I know where to send the ambulance. Hey, Carter, I’m planning to do so much blow my heart stops tonight. Should be good for defibrillation around midnight. Tell the paramedics I’ll be on the floor of a vomit-covered stall in the women’s restroom at Club Coriander.”
“You’re such an asshole,” she snaps.
“And you’re an addict. We’ve all got crosses to bear, little sister. I’m working on my issues; what are you doing about yours?”
They glare at each other, at an impasse. Stony silence descends over the room. With a bolstering breath, I wade into it.
“I think we’ve established that no one in this room is perfect,” I murmur. “Everybody is a mess in their own way. Everybody needs help sometimes. There’s no shame in admitting that.” I swallow hard. “Chloe… I want to be there for you. We—” I glance quickly at Carter, and he gives a small nod. “We both want to be there for you. But the thing is, no matter how much anyone else wants to help… it won’t make a damn bit of difference. Not until you’re ready to accept it. Not until you’re ready to help yourself.”
Her head pivots toward me, eyes narrowed to slits. “You think I haven’t tried to get clean? You think I haven’t attempted staying sober? You make it sound so fucking easy.”
“I never said it was easy. It’s going to be hard. It’ll probably feel damn near impossible, some days.”
“Delightful,” she mutters.
“Chloe.”
I wait until she looks at me and, when she does, I see the fear in her eyes. It’s there, simmering just below the sassy retorts and snappy comebacks.
She’s afraid.
Afraid of what we’re saying. Afraid of the tough road that lies ahead of her. Afraid she won’t be able to stay upright without the crutch of happy pills and gin-soaked benders.
“I may not have known you all that long, but I think I know you pretty well, Chloe Thorne,” I whisper softly. “So I know you don’t want to keep living like this. Not really. Not if you’re being honest with yourself.”
Her fingers flex against the fabric of the bedspread, tapping out nervous patterns. Her only answer is a noncommittal hum through pursed lips.
I lean in, trying to catch her eyes again. “If I’m right — if you actually want to change — you have to commit to it completely. That means no more snorting coke at shitty clubs. It also means no more convenient baggie of pills in your pockets, no more stash of pot gummy bears, no more bong hits before breakfast. You can’t leave the door to addiction ajar; this time, you have to shut it completely. All or nothing.”
“Look — I know it’s been bad, lately. I’ve been bad,” she says in a small voice. “But this is all being blown out of proportion. A little pot isn’t going to hurt me. I’m going to be better. Try harder. I promise. Moderation. That’s the key.”
Carter’s skeptical scoff cuts the air like the fall of an axe. “That’s what you said last time, right before you OD’d and got sent to rehab. And the time before that, when I found that hack of a sobriety coach for you—”
“Travis was not a hack!”
“Fucking you on the side was not part of the contract he signed,” Carter snaps. “Unless his dick has some mystical healing properties I’m unaware of.”
Chloe blows out a huff of air. “Okay. So maybe he was a bit of a hack. But I don’t need another sobriety coach and I definitely don’t need to go back to rehab. I’m going to rein it in. You’ll see. I’ll get it under control. I’ll be better.”
“For how long?” Carter’s head shakes. “A week? A month? Six months? Maybe, if we’re really lucky, a full year?”
“That’s not fair,” she retorts.
He advances three steps, fists clenched at his sides. “Don’t talk to me about fair. Fuck! I’m so tired of this, Chloe. I’m tired of having this same conversation with you, an endless goddamn loop of promises and lies. I’m tired of watching you throw all your talent and intelligence away, chasing some high that will never keep you satisfied. Mostly, though, I’m tired of—” His voice cracks and I swear, the sound is so broken, so utterly defeated, it’s enough to make tears spring to my eyes. “I’m tired of waiting for the call from some doctor in a morgue telling me my little sister is dead.”
A tear snakes down Chloe’s cheek. She tries to swipe it away before we can see, but she’s not quick enough.
Carter continues roughly. “I had no father. I’d probably have been better off without the sad excuse for a mother who raised us. I can count my entire family on one finger. That’s you,” he whispers starkly. “If you die — if you kill yourself with this poison — I’ll have no one left.”
She keeps her face averted, but there’s no missing the streaming tears — or the morose sniffles that accompany them.
“As your only brother, I’m asking you for a favor.” Carter sets a hand on her frail shoulder and squeezes lightly, as though she’s liable to shatter beneath his grip. “Choose yourself. Choose yourself over the drugs. Over the crappy childhood. Over all the shit that’s happened to you. Over all the voices that make you question why you’re still here. Choose your future over your past… and change your present.”
She glances up at him — eyes red-rimmed and full of tears. The silence between them stretches into a tangible thing, so thick in the air it’s hard to breathe properly.
“What if I fail again?” she whispers, barely audible. “What if I try to get clean and I can’t do it? What if… What if I let you down again? I’ve already disappointed you so many times…”
I reach across the bedspread and lace my hand with her limp one, squeezing as tight as I can manage. “You’ve got two people right here who believe you can do this, Chloe. But we can’t be the only ones.. You have to believe in yourself, too. You have to try. Really try. Whether that’s with talk therapy or guided meditation or a full ten-step program. You’ve got to be all in, this time.” I pause, careful not to look at Carter when I say the next part. Unable to meet his eyes as I repeat the words he once spoke to me, when I was at a low point of my own. “Someone very wise once told me… the hardest thing in the world is figuring out who you are and refusing to apologize for it. Being yourself in the face of great opposition.”
I hear a sharp inhale from Carter’s direction, but I keep going.
“You have a big obstacle in front of you. It’s never easy to start an uphill climb when you’re still at the bottom; it probably feels insurmountable right now. But if you never even try… you’re letting the prospect of failure define you long before you’ve actually failed. And that’s just bullshit.” I squeeze her hand harder. “The Chloe Thorne I know doesn’t let anyone or anything define her.”
Her hand is bony and cold in mine, but there’s unanticipated strength in her grip as she returns my squeeze — hard enough to make my fingers ache. I tell myself the tears in my eyes are from that pain, not from her next words.
“Okay. Okay. I’ll try. I might not succeed, I’ll probably let you down again… But I’ll really try. I promise.”