“What are you going to do, Blair? Kick me out of the house? Cut me off?”
“Where is this attitude coming from? This newfound streak of obstinance is unlike you.”
“Maybe I’m just finally growing a little backbone,” I mutter. “Maybe I’m tired of bending over backwards, trying to please you and Vincent.”
“Please us?” Her tone freezes over, each word blasting across the line in arctic gusts. “You don’t please us, Josephine. You have always been a disappointment. I thought we might correct that, allowing you to stand by our side, permitting you to be a part of our life’s joy—”
Ah yes, their life’s joy.
Their company.
Not their child.
Never their child.
“—but it seems I was gravely mistaken. It seems, despite my best efforts, you are determined to throw away all our hard work. Everything we’ve invested in your future. For what? A failed foray into fashion, followed by a miserably ordinary existence?”
Her words sluice through me like a blade.
You have always been a disappointment.
I wish I was strong enough to ignore the pain that sentiment causes. Wish I didn’t still crave what all children crave from their parents — love, affection, a semblance of pride. I should know better, after two decades’ evidence to the contrary. I am no more than a puppet on their strings, my actions meticulously choreographed from the day I was born.
What other facets of my life have they attempted to orchestrate?
I’m breathing hard, trying and failing to control my emotions. The blood between my ears rushes like a river, flooding the banks, unearthing things left buried for far too long.
“What happened last summer, Blair?” I ask quietly. “That day Archer came here and left me that note. What really happened?”
She sucks in a sharp stream of air. I’m not sure which one of us is more thrown by the question — me in pitching it or her in fielding it. Blair certainly never offered up any details, and I’d never asked. Last June, I was so buried in heartache, so consumed by the haze of pain and confusion, I never wanted to hear the specifics.
I want to hear them now.
“Blair,” I prompt.
“What does the Reyes boy have to do with anything? It’s ancient history.”
“Not for me.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve been in contact with him. Really Josephine… after what he did to you last summer….” She makes atsksound. “Are you so foolish to open doors better left closed?”
Apparently.
“Just tell me!” I insist. “If you’ve nothing to hide, if you’ve told me the truth, then tell me what happened. Spell it out.”
“He came. He dropped off the note. I assure you, we did not exchange any words — or, if we did, they were not worthy of remembering. That shouldn’t be a shock. He was never exactly… verbose.”
I let her veiled insults slide by, too focused on more important clarifications. “So he came here. In person. You spoke to him. Face to face.”
“Didn’t I just say so?” she snaps, her unshakable calm momentarily slipping. “If you’re just going to pepper me with nonsensical questions, I’m hanging up the phone.”
I swallow hard, working up my courage. “The funny thing is, I’ve got it on good authority Archer couldn’t have come here that day. Because he was in the hospital, recovering from a nasty car accident.”
Silence blasts over the line.
“So I’m wondering,” I continue, with a violent sort of softness. “Why you said you saw him if you didn’t?”
“What does it matter if I saw him or not?”