“I’m not dumping my health issues on anyone at this table,” I gritted out. “I live on the other side of the freaking country. Where is this coming from?”
“You need to come back. You have to come back, you’re not well.” Mama snuffled, throwing her napkin over her entrée, the plate still overflowing with food. “Your sister broke her back working two jobs so you could live in New York. Before she’d left the city, she cushioned your life with a top-notch apartment that’s been paid for and even covered the tuition fee for your nursing school. And what do you do with all this goodness? Making coffee!”
“Hey.” It was my turn to smack the table, and damn, it hurt. “Since when do you frown upon certain jobs? You were a cook for forty years.”
“I had no choice!” Mama screamed.
“Neither did I! I dropped out of school because Dr. Hasting made me!”
She stood up and stormed out of the dining room, leaving me speechless.
Daddy, Vicious, and Emilia stared at me. The men with disappointment, my sister with pity. Tears stabbed at my eyeballs, begging for me to let them loose. I never cried, and I hated showing weakness. Especially when every single thing I did in life was designed to prove to my family that I could make it on my own. That I didn’t need help. That my petals were falling, but that I was still in blossom.
“Rosie…” Millie said softly. “Give Mama some time.”
“Stop defending your sister.” Daddy dragged a hand over his face. Each syllable he uttered spread like wildfire inside me. He narrowed his eyes at the Juliet balcony behind my back, unable to spare me a glance. “You’re killing your mama and yourself. You had a doctor boyfriend. A man who could give you everything you needed.”
“He was a podiatrist. That’s like half a doctor. It’s no more a doctor than Ross Geller.”
Yeah. I took most of my cultural references from Friends episodes. Sue me.
Daddy didn’t find my remark funny. In fact, he ignored it altogether as he slowly gathered his phone and pack of tobacco he chewed after every dinner, ready to leave, too.
“You broke up with him because you were selfish. Because staying meant facing the music, darlin’. Because you can’t commit to anything, which is why you dropped out of nursing school, live in a paid-for apartment, and work as a waitress at twenty-eight. Your sister is getting married in a week.” He took a deep breath, closing his eyes as if he needed strength to finish the sentence. “And here you are, making us all worried about you again. Your mama doesn’t need time. She needs a healthy daughter.”
“Whatever happened to ‘do what you want to do’, Daddy?” I shot up from my seat, every muscle in my face shaking in anger. I had no one. No one but Millie. No one to appreciate who I was without slapping me with the label ‘sick’ and ‘weak’. “Whatever happened to ‘you can do anything, as long as you put your mind to it’?”
He shook his head. My father was a small man with a lean, muscular body from doing labor work all day, but he looked so big and imposing at that moment.
“You were eighteen when you moved, Rosie. You’re twenty-eight now. Most men want to settle down and have a family by now. How could you throw away one who would not only sacrifice those things to be with you, but could actually take care of you?” He turned to my sister whose mouth was wide open. “She needs to hear it. She can’t afford to be choosy.”
With that, he left the room, too.
“I believe this is my cue to let you collect the pieces,” Vicious’s dark voice muttered, pressing a kiss to Millie’s crown. He followed Daddy out. The doors closed with a soft thud that made my heart rattle.
My sister looked down at her plate, rubbing her thighs as she did when she was nervous. Her beautiful, silver-starred dress riding up and down her legs.
“I’m so sorry,” was all she said. At least she didn’t serve me the usual bullshit and alternative truths people give others to console them.
“Daddy never said a cross word to me before.” I choked on my sentence. I needed my inhaler. I needed my parents. I needed a hug. Millie’s eyes moved up to meet mine. Pain twirled inside them. She thought I was a lost cause, too. She just didn’t want to push me like they did.
Now that we were alone, tears streamed down my face.
“They love you,” she gulped.
“And I love them,” I retorted.
She got up, smoothing the fabric of her dress. “I know that’s the last thing you want to hear, but you need to consider moving back. I need my sister by my side, Rosie-bug. I miss you too much. Plus, Mama and Daddy are crazy worried.”
“For my health, or for their conscience?” I rested my hands on my thighs and offered her a pointed look. “How long have you known about this? About Daddy believing I was a stupid girl and about Mama acting like I was on death row?”
“Rosie…”
“Do you think I’m not a catch, too?” I laughed through my tears. Jesus, crazy was not a good look for me. “Do you also think Darren did me some huge favor by sticking around because I’m oh, so sick?”
“Of course, you’re a catch!” she exclaimed.
Yeah.
It was just that I wasn’t as good a catch as she was. The need to prove her wrong burned every bone in my body.
“Please leave me alone.” Resting my arms on the table, I buried my face between them.
She did.
I closed my eyes, letting misery carry me down a river of self-pity, and banged my head against the pristine white tablecloth three times.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Welcome to Todos Santos, Rosie.
What makes you feel alive?
Running barefoot. Feeling the branches smack my face, my chest, my feet. Getting hurt. Aching. Taking chances.
DEAN PICKED ME UP IN a red, older model extended cab truck. I had no idea where he got it from, but at that stage, I was willing to jump into a huge van filled with balaclava-wearing strangers offering a suspicious stack of candy to get away from this place.
Unwinding was never in the cards for me that night, or so I thought. I simply wanted to steal a few, peaceful moments of steadying breaths somewhere I wouldn’t be criticized.
The minute Dean’s vehicle parked in front of the mansion’s gates, I bolted out, hauled myself into the passenger’s seat, and buckled up.
I looked like hell in my denim skirt and baggy white shirt—it was Darren’s Podiatrists Association tee he got at a convention earlier this year—and my hair told the story of a five-hour flight and a restless nap.
“Drive,” I ordered, staring ahead, still unsure of how Dean ‘Manslut’ Cole had somehow become my savior, and what did it say about my overall situation. I didn’t want to look at him and chance showing him what was behind my eyes, because if he could decrypt those feelings, he’d see everything. Every ugly truth.
He didn’t ask where. Just pulled out a bottle of Jim Beam and said, “Roll your window down. I’ll put some music on.”