Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 177397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 887(@200wpm)___ 710(@250wpm)___ 591(@300wpm)
I take a moment to recall the purpose of my first invitation inside her home in three years before saying more respectfully, “I would like to see Aleena. She is my sister, and I want to be a part of her life.”
My mother’s pause for contemplation pinnacles my hope that there’s only one way for it to go when she responds with the same snarky tone she always used when I was a child. “Just because you want something doesn’t mean you can have it.” She steps closer, hovering over me and reminding me I didn’t get my short height from her. “As you said previously, Aleena is now an adult. Who she invites into her life is her choice. I can’t force her to let you in, Zoya.”
“I’m not asking you to force her. I just want you to step back and let her decide.”
“What do you think I’ve been doing the past several years?” Intervening, I attempt to reply, but she continues talking, stealing my chance. “I’ve asked Aleena numerous times if she would like me to initiate contact with you. She always answers the same way.” Her following words cut deeper than her vicious smirk. “She has no interest in befriending the person who stole her first real boyfriend.”
She could only shock me more if she slapped me in the face. “I offered Bayli a ride home after you kicked him out. I didn’t steal him.”
“That’s not how Aleena sees it.”
“Because she has you muttering in her ear. You always pit us against each other. You want us to hate each other because, for some stupid reason, you blame us for your inability to keep your legs closed anytime our father came sniffing around.”
I lied earlier. I see her slap coming from a mile out, and I’m still shocked by it. It rockets my head to the side and leaves a nasty red imprint on my cheek.
There’s no remorse in her eyes when I return my head front and center. No pleas for forgiveness. She looks like a cat staring at an empty bird aviary because she knows I won’t fight.
If I fight, I’ll lose Aleena entirely. The sporadic contact I get every now and again is nothing spectacular, but it is better than having no contact at all.
“Tell Aleena I was here.” With my tone more angst riddled than I am aiming for, I tack on a quick, “Please,” before I farewell my mother with a dip of my chin and shadow Stasy out of the den.
Once I am confident we’re without prying eyes, I pull out the birthday card I had hoped to hand deliver and slowly veer it toward Stasy. It’s plumped out with a handful of the letters that were returned to my apartment unopened and unread over the past year.
“No, Ms. Zoya. Please don’t make me.” Her English is broken, but I have no trouble understanding the pure agony in her tone. “Mrs. Sakharoff be mad. She won’t forgive.” She pushes the card back my way. “I no do it. I want no trouble.”
“But…” I hate myself for pushing. The worry in her beautifully unique eyes reveals that every word she speaks is true. Her fret is very much warranted, and I hate it even more than how quickly I backtrack on the sole purpose of my visit to Chelabini. “Okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
Her relieved sigh hits the back of my neck as she assists me into my coat. Once it covers my shoulders, hanging lower than they were minutes ago, she spins me around to help pull my hair from the collar.
“It’s okay. Leave it. I don’t need to impress anyone.” My low words expose my confrontation with my mother hurt me more than I will ever admit.
I could beg that woman to love me. I could fall to my knees and promise a loyalty she would never be able to replicate, and she would still turn me away.
That’s how much she hates me.
“Goodbye, Stasy.”
An icy breeze cools my mother’s handprint for half a second before a warm hand curls around my elbow to tug me back into the overheated foyer.
I peer at Stasy with my brows stitched when she hands me a business card for a local hotel. I’m not looking forward to the three-hour drive home. Beggars can’t be choosers, however. I can’t afford a dingy motel on the outskirts of town, let alone one with business cards with elegant gold-embossed font.
My eyes shoot up to Stasy when she says, “You should stop in for tea. Медови́к best in the country.” My heart beats double-time when a rare smile raises her cheeks. “Source very reliable. She knows her cakes.”
Aleena is obsessed with the creamy honey cake our mother would only let us eat on special occasions. She was adamant the repercussions of a regular sugary treat would make us more undesirable than a possible infertility issue.