I nodded. I pushed the photo into my pocket, where the medallion was safely tucked away. Other people came out to say goodbye, but my mother didn’t let me linger. Within fifteen minutes we were on the road. I sat hunched against the passenger door, my arms tight around myself.
“You tried to sleep with him last night, didn’t you?” My question came out bitter and sharp. It was the only weapon I had. “And he rejected you.”
“Shut up, Liv.”
I could almost see it—Crystal standing at the doorway of North’s bedroom, all soft blond hair and creamy skin, her robe lowered just enough to show a hint of cleavage. But North hadn’t wanted her. Or if he had, not like that, not her sexuality, cold as a diamond beneath her beauty. Her humiliation must still be scorching her from the inside out.
Because everyone wanted my mother.
“You’d never be good enough for him,” I said. “He turned you out like the whore you are, didn’t he?”
She reached across the seat and slapped my face. I pressed my hand to my cheek. Tears stung my eyes. I knew then that I would leave my mother.
I will not be like you, I thought. I will never be like you.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Olivia
an I come in?” my mother asks.
Her question breaks me from my shock. “What… what are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see you.” She stands, running her hands over her thighs. “It’s been a while.”
“Yes, it has.”
We look at each other for a second before Crystal picks up two bags on the bottom step. My hand shakes as I dig into my pocket for my keys and pass her on the stairs. I unlock the door and push it open, stepping aside to let her enter before me. She smells like lavender. Her favorite scent.
She drops her bag and a square, leather case on the floor, casting a glance around the apartment.
“Cute,” she remarks. “Looks like a place you’d see in a magazine. How to make the most of a small space.”
I follow her to the living room. I can’t stop staring at her, some part of my brain registering the changes wrought by the past three years.
Her pale skin is uncreased by age, and she looks thinner, her pronounced cheekbones emphasizing her blue eyes framed by incredibly thick lashes. Her long hair is the color of wheat, streaked with red in the light, falling in waves around her shoulders. She’s wearing jeans and a loose, floral-print blouse beneath a cream-colored leather jacket.
She’s beautiful. She’s always been beautiful. Slender like a dancer. Small-breasted, lithe. Though I’m a couple of inches shorter than she is, I’m heavier, curvier. Bigger.
Crystal is looking at me as if she’s assessing me the way I am her.
“It’s good to see you, Liv.”
“Thanks.”
“Where were you?” she asks.
“Working.” I go into the kitchen and start to make a pot of coffee just to have something to do. “Where did you get in from?”
“Indianapolis.” She follows me and leans against the doorjamb. “I was visiting some friends.”
“You’re still making jewelry?”
“Yes. I go to art fairs when I can but my car is on its last legs. I need to get it fixed soon.” She glances around the kitchen. “So where’s your husband?”
“He’s…” Shit. I have no idea how to explain that Dean is staying in a hotel without sounding like we’re having marital problems. “He’s working too.”
He’s also coming over in close to an hour.
“He’ll be here soon.” I turn on the coffeepot. “Help yourself to whatever you want from the fridge. I’m going to take a shower.”
I go into the bedroom and strip out of my clothes. Not even the hot spray of the shower eases the apprehension tensing my shoulders. I’d had tonight’s outfit all planned, but I can’t go out with Dean and leave my mother here alone. And certainly he can’t come in and have the evening we’d both been hoping for.
I pull on a pair of jeans and a fleece shirt before returning to the living room.
Crystal is sitting on the sofa, rummaging through her bag. She takes an elastic band and winds her hair up into a long ponytail. Her movements are graceful and unconsciously elegant. Exactly the way I remember.
As a girl, I would watch in silence as my mother brushed and arranged her hair. Then when she’d leave, I would do the same thing with my own hair, looking in the mirror as I tried to copy her movements.
“So how long do you think you’ll be in town?” I ask, attempting to keep my voice casual.
“A few days,” she says. “Can I crash on your sofa?”
Crash on your sofa. Sometimes she’d ask a man that question when she was looking for a place to stay, but far more often than not, she didn’t have to ask because they just invited her. And she didn’t crash on their sofas… she always ended up in their beds.
“No,” I tell her. “There’s really not enough room here, as you pointed out.”
“I don’t take up much space.” She eyes me with a touch of offense. “After all this time, you’re seriously not going to let me stay?”