“Whichever one you don’t want, I get first dibs. Over and out.”
The intercom goes silent.
I peel off the rest of my travel clothes and throw myself onto Phoebe’s bed next to Falon. Phoebe’s already in her closet looking for something suitable for me to wear. One of the benefits of being Phoebe’s twin is getting to take advantage of her impeccable taste and a much more expensive wardrobe than my own.
“Don’t get too cozy,” Phoebe shouts from her closet. “You’re going down there even if Martin’s not willing to join in your ridiculous charade.”
“But it’s so nice.” I bury my face into the soft comforter. “Just give me a pair of sweatpants and we’ll call it a day.”
“Can I ask why your ex-husband thinks you’re in a relationship with Martin?” Falon asks.
“Because she’s a liar.” Phoebe holds up a black turtleneck sweater dress. “What about this?”
“I’m not a liar,” I say, genuinely offended by the remark. “Phoebe, you have no idea what I had to deal with. I was trapped in a van with the last man who saw me naked before all my good parts started to go wonky. Also, that dress is giving me Diane Keaton vibes.”
She ignores me. “I think the dress is a yes. Falon?” Falon nods in agreement. “Put this on.”
“Are you just not going to acknowledge me?” I pull the dress over my head and shimmy it down my body. “That’s it?”
“I couldn’t ignore you if I tried, Penny, because you command the spotlight. No. Command is being too generous. You hog it.”
“I do not.”
“Really?” She rolls her eyes. “I tell you on the phone that Falon and I have big news to share, and you end up bringing your ex-husband over for cocktails and asking Martin to be your personal escort. You’ve completely stolen our thunder.”
“Hun.” Falon reaches for my sister’s hand. “You’re tired. It’s been a long day.” Falon turns to me. “She’s just hangry.”
“Don’t apologize for me, babe,” Phoebe says, pulling away. “I need to get this off my chest or it’s just going to build up all weekend.”
“Get what off your chest?” I laugh uneasily. “Are you seriously upset with me, Feeb?”
But I know the answer without her saying a word. The heaviness in her brows. The frustration in her eyes. The way her lips pull so tightly into a frown, they nearly lose all color. It’s the same face I make when I’ve finally had enough.
“This is our first holiday being engaged,” Phoebe says. “But all Mom and Dad care about is the fact that you’re finally coming home. Now, I know you can’t help that, and I was able to get past it, but then you got stuck in traffic.”
“That wasn’t my fault.”
She holds up her hand and shushes me. “I know that. I get it. That’s why I didn’t mind entertaining Martin. He’s actually a really nice guy. He’s new to the office so I don’t really know him, but what I know of him I like. He barely batted an eye when I downed an entire bottle of cabernet during Mom’s photo presentation of your life from birth until high school graduation.”
“Then what exactly have I done that has you upset with me?” I ask. “Because whatever it is, I’m sorry.”
“Now Smith’s staying over for drinks.”
“Again, not my fault.”
“I know.” She sighs. “But now you’re asking Martin to play along with one of your stories, and to be honest, it’s exhausting.”
“One of my stories?”
“Stories. Lies. Fictional retellings. Call it whatever you want. It’s what you do whenever you come back home. You turn into this one-woman show and everyone else becomes some minor character whose only purpose is to support you. You’ve been doing it your whole life.”
Normally, I would take being called a one-woman show as a compliment. But Phoebe doesn’t mean it in a Carol Burnett kind of way. It’s an insult.
Until this moment, I had no idea how deeply my sister’s words could cut through me. Straight past my skin, muscles, and bones and right into my very soul. The corners of my eyes prickle with the threat of tears, which I blink back immediately. I don’t cry, especially not here and now.
“Is that it?” I walk past Phoebe, our arms brushing up against each other. “Or are there any other opinions you’d like to share about me?” I pull out the chair of her vanity and plop myself down in front of her makeup bag and hair products. “I hope you don’t mind me borrowing your stuff. If I were to go get mine, I’d have to go downstairs, and there might be people, which means there might be a chance that I’d steal your precious spotlight.”
I catch a glimpse of her in the mirror tossing her head back in frustration before she exits the room, leaving Falon and me alone. Phoebe and I don’t argue often. I used to think it was because we always got along so easily. She was the golden child. I was the class clown. I admired her, and she humored me. We complemented each other that way.
We grew apart after I dropped out of college. Nothing extreme. We never had a falling-out. We were just on different paths. She was on the one my parents wanted her to be on, and I went rogue. She went to grad school, got a big job followed by an even bigger promotion, and a few years later met the girl of her dreams. I got married, got divorced, moved to San Francisco, and started writing. Her whole life synced perfectly with everything my parents could’ve ever hoped for, and I cheered for her the entire way. It wasn’t an in-person kind of cheer, but I was still proud of her, even from afar. I always have been. It hadn’t occurred to me that she harbored resentment toward me.
“The holidays are hard on everyone.” Falon places her hand on my shoulder. “She didn’t mean what she said, Pen.”
“Yes, she did,” I say.
I undo my topknot and run my fingers through my messy curls. I don’t bother trying to comb through them. What’s the point? I smear on a little bit of blush and dab some concealer under my eyes.
“Try this.” Falon hands me a tube of Chanel lipstick. “Phoebe always says this color would look better on you than her. I think it’s your hair that makes the difference.”
“Thanks.” I take it. “Can I ask you something, Falon?”
“Sure.”
“Do you agree with her? Do you think I’m some awful liar that sucks the life out of every room I enter?” My stomach drops to my feet as I brace myself for her answer.
“That’s not what she said or meant.” Falon pulls my hair back and ties it in a loose ponytail at the nape of my neck. “I think she just wants you to be you. She says it feels like you’re putting on this front when you’re around your parents, instead of just being yourself. They act differently too. I think she just wants everyone to be themselves and get along.” She squeezes my shoulder. “Everything will be fine after she gets some food in her system. I promise.”
Falon leaves me alone in Phoebe’s room to finish getting ready, and all I can think about is whether the wooden trellis next to the window can still hold my weight after all this time. My parents had the trellis outside my room removed when I was fifteen. I snuck out to see a Kelly Clarkson concert with Smith and we ended up getting stranded in Malibu. My father didn’t talk to me for weeks, and my mother seriously considered sending me to one of those wilderness survival schools for wayward teens.
I take one final look at myself in the mirror, and that’s when I notice the picture of Phoebe and me tucked in the bottom of the frame. We’re in our Princeton sweatshirts, sitting on beds opposite each other in our dorm. My hair is streaked with hideous highlights, and Phoebe’s is freshly cut and dyed blond. Phoebe’s hair color is the only way I know this photo is from our second year in college. Well, Phoebe’s second year. My last.
This is probably the last picture my parents have of us both in college. Our family fell apart that Thanksgiving, and I’m not sure we were ever truly able to put it back together.
Chapter 9
Thanksgiving 2006: