Fortunately, by the time the phone booted up, a tiny bit of sense had set in. Making a rash phone call would only open the floodgates to a tsunami of questions and requests that would sweep her back into the world she’d only just barely escaped. And the truth was that Selma hadn’t said anything Rosa hadn’t heard a million times. All things considered, exhibitionist was one of the kinder insults people had thrown her way over the years.
Rosa desperately wished things were clearer and that she had all the answers she needed to move forward. But right now, the only thing she knew for sure was that she needed more time to think. Time to breathe. Time to figure out exactly what she wanted, rather than the easiest path or what would make her mother the happiest.
She’d been barely out of high school when she’d agreed to do the show. But she wasn’t a kid anymore. She knew a heck of a lot more now than she had at eighteen. So even though the cell phone felt like a hot potato in her hand and she couldn’t wait to be free of it again, she had to at least get a message out to her family as soon as possible.
As she went online and logged into her email, she worked to ignore the tight clench of her chest and the knots in her stomach. But when she saw hundreds of new emails waiting in her inbox, there was no point in even trying to be calm and collected. Not when there were media requests from every major outlet in the world, everything from People magazine to the London Times newspaper to US Weekly. Even Time wanted to talk to her.
Her hand shook as she clicked on only one email from her mother’s private account.
Rosalind, I’m praying you’re okay! Please contact me! We’re all so worried.
Rosa’s throat swelled with emotion, and her eyes were already full of tears as she typed:
I didn’t mean to worry you.
She paused with her fingers over the phone. She didn’t want to make any promises about when she’d be back, but she didn’t want to cut ties forever either. After a half-dozen false starts, she finally settled on:
I promise I’ll be back in touch soon. I hope you and Aaron and Lincoln are doing okay. I love you all.
Rosa had hoped sending the email would make her feel less guilty. But, if anything, knowing how worried her mother was made her feel worse than ever. And more than that, she realized just how much she wanted to hear her voice.
She was just about to switch over from email to the phone so that she could call home, when a new email appeared on her screen.
Thank God you’re all right! I was so worried when you didn’t pick up any of my calls or answer my emails. I know how upset you were about the pictures, but by now I’m sure you can see that the public is more on our side than ever. Absolutely everyone wants to interview you and the network is ready to do a two-hour special in the top time slot. We can turn something terrible into something amazing, honey, but we can’t do anything with these incredible opportunities without you. I’m waiting by the phone. Everyone here is ready to jump on a plane and come right to you, wherever you are.
Rosa felt as if a bitter, cold wind had whipped into the motel room.
Had she actually been stupid enough to think that her mother was simply worried about her?
How could she have forgotten that, although they’d agreed to do the reality show five years ago to save their family, now the cameras, the interviews, the opportunities always came first?
Her stomach roiled, but she didn’t give in to the urge to be sick. Or to cry. Or to scream. Instead, she methodically logged out of her email, shut down the phone, and placed it on the bureau next to the needles and thread she’d bought at the general store.
She had always been able to think most clearly while her hands were busy, and as she picked up the spool and rubbed the glossy thread between her thumb and forefinger, the steady scratch of wound cotton against her skin helped her feel less numb. Less empty. Less like she was teetering on the edge of a cliff with nothing but a long dark hole beneath her.
Fiber art had been Rosa’s secret escape during the past five years. No one outside of her family knew that she made crazy pictures with thread and, honestly, that was just fine with Rosa. She liked having something that was all hers, something she didn’t have to broadcast via photos and video clips, something she didn’t have to pull out for late-night talk shows like a performing monkey. Fiber art was her quiet place. Her time to unwind.
She wasn’t actually an artist—not like Drake—but in the same way that she’d heard writers say they got their best ideas in the shower, she’d always had her best ideas with a needle in her hand. Her hobby had kept her sane, so maybe if she could stitch something she’d be able to get a handle on her racing heartbeat, her anger...and most of all, her hurt that even now her mother was focused only on the opportunities.