Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123155 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 616(@200wpm)___ 493(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123155 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 616(@200wpm)___ 493(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
“She was always closer with Rose,” Cecilia argued with no heat. She set the phone on the bedside table. “She’s probably really freaked out. I’m not going to bother her.”
She twisted on the bed and laid down with her back to me, pulling the covers up to her shoulder.
“You want me to take Olive so you can get some rest?” I asked, glancing at the squirming baby. Olive was busy kicking her legs and waving her arms in front of her face.
“If you don’t mind, yeah,” Cecilia said from beneath the covers.
I stared at Cecilia’s back for a while, wondering if I should crawl in behind her. Cecilia and Lily’s relationship was complicated, and I knew that was mostly because of the woman curled into a ball in front of me—but I also knew that she didn’t want it to be that way. Sometimes, people just fell into patterns that were nearly impossible to get out of. I hated that she didn’t even feel welcome to call Lily when her family was going through something so terrifying.
Olive started to fuss and when Cecilia didn’t even reach for her, I made my decision. I picked up the baby and left the room, closing the door behind me so her mother could rest.
“You want a tour?” I asked Olive quietly as I strode toward the stairs. Her little body felt good against my chest, and for the first time in a couple days, it felt like I could exhale.
Later, I’d be grateful for that little piece of calm before the storm.
Chapter 9
Cecilia
I stared at a small drip of paint on the windowsill, millimeters away from where it met the wall. It was almost perfectly formed, like it had been caught mid-roll and was now stuck in that same position forever, marring the nearly pristine paintwork. A mistake that was now permanently part of the room.
How fitting.
It had always been amazing to me how a word of praise can be forgotten in an instant, but a harsh word is remembered forever. I’m not sure if it’s a defense mechanism protecting someone from being hurt again, or if we as humans just choose to remember the shitty parts of someone rather than the good ones. Whatever the reason, I felt like I’d been dealing with it my entire life.
I was the family fuck up. Mean. Wild. Selfish. Liar.
For a long time, I’d owned it. I’d played into the role that I’d been cast because honestly, there hadn’t been a different role to play. My older brother Cam was the child my parents had chosen. They’d adopted him after his entire first family had died, and he’d been fully formed when they added him to our family, his personality already set. He was a leader. Before he became my brother, he’d already been the oldest child, the oldest sibling. He was patient and helpful and he adored my mom, which meant he always went out of his way to make her happy.
My little sister Lily was different. Where Cam was a natural born leader, Lily was a follower. She was easy, because she was so damn sweet. From the minute she was born, it was like our world revolved around her. And I understood it, I really did. She was brilliant, really and truly brilliant, like my dad. Her intelligence was intimidating, but she never held it over anyone. It was like she didn’t even realize how much smarter she was than nearly everyone around her. She was just sweet, in a way that wasn’t grating or annoying. So when she lost her sight at eleven years old? It rocked our family to the very foundation and what little attention hadn’t been focused on her before, became hyper-focused on her afterward.
I also had another little sister, Charlie, who came after Lily became blind.
Rubbing my fingers over my lips, I fought against the urge to cry.
I didn’t know Charlie very well. She was born when I was nearly out of the house, and most of my memories with her were when she was still called swimming, fimming, because she couldn’t make the s sound. She was a really cool kid, I knew that much, but we hadn’t spent much time together since I’d moved away. It was my fault. I hadn’t made an effort.
I’d escaped Oregon because I’d been the fuck up. Because I had put so much importance on getting my parents’ attention—on getting anyone’s attention—that it was suffocating me.
I was the middle child and because of that, I’d naturally found myself doing anything and everything to get my parents’ attention and affection. Hell, even their anger had been better than feeling ignored. And when I was young, it hadn’t been terrible. I’d been bratty, sure. But it wasn’t until the early summer day when our family had been attacked, and I’d found myself stumbling through the carnage, that things had changed.