Florence sighed softly. “If only we were still babies. When you were still in New Orleans, and I didn’t know anything about how messed up people could be.”
At her words, anger began to boil inside me. “Did something happen?” If anyone had messed with her, if someone had hurt her, I swore to God …
Florence propped herself up on her elbows and shrugged, shoulders slumped forward.
“Just my mom being … you know.” She stared ahead at nothing, expression dead. She sniffed a couple times and shrugged again. “It just really sucks. She barely talks to us anymore. She’s totally withdrawn. Nic is all confused.”
Florence’s face was uncharacteristically impassive and blank. Her eyes were two hollow blue pools.
“I hate her,” Florence suddenly announced to the darkness.
I jerked back slightly. “Whoa. Hey, don’t say that. She’s still your mom.”
Florence swung angry eyes at me, the emotion running so deep and hard that I twitched in shock at the sight of them. “So what? She doesn’t act like one. Just because she’s my mom doesn’t mean I should love her. I’m sick of dealing with her. She doesn’t take care of us, any of us. We’re invisible to her, we’re nothing.”
Florence shook her head. “Just yesterday Nic went to her with something, I don’t know even know what or why, but he was crying. And she just ignored him, like totally ignored him. Didn’t answer, didn’t acknowledge him. I was so mad I wanted to scream. But I didn’t. I just grabbed Nic and we went outside into the yard. When Dad got back home, he asked what was wrong. And I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t bring myself to explain how I felt. So I just smiled and said we were happy he was home.”
She paused. “Like I said, I’m weird.”
At a loss for words, all I could do was nod slowly. “Yeah. You weirdo.”
Florence rolled over to her side until she was almost laying in my lap. She buried her face against my knee. I fought all the conflicting reflexes that assailed me—to push her away, to pull her closer, to jump up and run away, to fall down with her and never let go.
I stared blankly into the darkness spotted with moving lights, every part of me in contention. In agony. I struggled to control my physical response, that side of me that made me sick to think of.
I was so preoccupied with my own struggles that I barely caught her next words.
“You like me regardless of whether I’m nice or mean, right? Even if I’m a jerk to people.” Her voice was laced with hope and an undercurrent of self-doubt.
“Florence.” I licked my lips nervously. I allowed myself a moment of honesty, a crack in my defenses. “How I feel about you will never change, no matter what.”
Florence peeked up. Her eyes softened and her expression opened. She snaked her fingers through the grass and lightly touched the back of my left palm resting against the cool damp dirt.
“Always?” Her question was breathy.
Our fingers intertwined. “Always,” I replied, the sound of my heart thudding in my ears.
“We’re not liars, not with each other.” Florence gripped my hand and squeezed it tight, needing a sign, a symbol of confirmation. “But we can be weirdos together, right?”
I laughed and raised my right hand, using the back of my fingers to stroke her cheek. I brushed the edge of my thumb to lightly rub the dirt off her cheekbone.
“Yeah. Okay,” I answered softly.
And she smiled.
Chapter 7
Florence Reynolds, twenty-nine years old
“D eep breaths,” I muttered to myself while tugging my pencil skirt down. “Deep breaths, Reynolds. That’s right.” I shifted my messenger bag and fiddled with my watch.
If I was a liar, I’d say I wasn’t nervous. But after Saturday’s display at the fundraiser and the subsequent Sunday’s barrage of questions from Tracy and Nicholas (mostly Tracy), this morning I was a loosely bundled pack of nerves. Somehow, talking it over made it worse, and now that I was
At her words, anger began to boil inside me. “Did something happen?” If anyone had messed with her, if someone had hurt her, I swore to God …
Florence propped herself up on her elbows and shrugged, shoulders slumped forward.
“Just my mom being … you know.” She stared ahead at nothing, expression dead. She sniffed a couple times and shrugged again. “It just really sucks. She barely talks to us anymore. She’s totally withdrawn. Nic is all confused.”
Florence’s face was uncharacteristically impassive and blank. Her eyes were two hollow blue pools.
“I hate her,” Florence suddenly announced to the darkness.
I jerked back slightly. “Whoa. Hey, don’t say that. She’s still your mom.”
Florence swung angry eyes at me, the emotion running so deep and hard that I twitched in shock at the sight of them. “So what? She doesn’t act like one. Just because she’s my mom doesn’t mean I should love her. I’m sick of dealing with her. She doesn’t take care of us, any of us. We’re invisible to her, we’re nothing.”
Florence shook her head. “Just yesterday Nic went to her with something, I don’t know even know what or why, but he was crying. And she just ignored him, like totally ignored him. Didn’t answer, didn’t acknowledge him. I was so mad I wanted to scream. But I didn’t. I just grabbed Nic and we went outside into the yard. When Dad got back home, he asked what was wrong. And I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t bring myself to explain how I felt. So I just smiled and said we were happy he was home.”
She paused. “Like I said, I’m weird.”
At a loss for words, all I could do was nod slowly. “Yeah. You weirdo.”
Florence rolled over to her side until she was almost laying in my lap. She buried her face against my knee. I fought all the conflicting reflexes that assailed me—to push her away, to pull her closer, to jump up and run away, to fall down with her and never let go.
I stared blankly into the darkness spotted with moving lights, every part of me in contention. In agony. I struggled to control my physical response, that side of me that made me sick to think of.
I was so preoccupied with my own struggles that I barely caught her next words.
“You like me regardless of whether I’m nice or mean, right? Even if I’m a jerk to people.” Her voice was laced with hope and an undercurrent of self-doubt.
“Florence.” I licked my lips nervously. I allowed myself a moment of honesty, a crack in my defenses. “How I feel about you will never change, no matter what.”
Florence peeked up. Her eyes softened and her expression opened. She snaked her fingers through the grass and lightly touched the back of my left palm resting against the cool damp dirt.
“Always?” Her question was breathy.
Our fingers intertwined. “Always,” I replied, the sound of my heart thudding in my ears.
“We’re not liars, not with each other.” Florence gripped my hand and squeezed it tight, needing a sign, a symbol of confirmation. “But we can be weirdos together, right?”
I laughed and raised my right hand, using the back of my fingers to stroke her cheek. I brushed the edge of my thumb to lightly rub the dirt off her cheekbone.
“Yeah. Okay,” I answered softly.
And she smiled.
Chapter 7
Florence Reynolds, twenty-nine years old
“D eep breaths,” I muttered to myself while tugging my pencil skirt down. “Deep breaths, Reynolds. That’s right.” I shifted my messenger bag and fiddled with my watch.
If I was a liar, I’d say I wasn’t nervous. But after Saturday’s display at the fundraiser and the subsequent Sunday’s barrage of questions from Tracy and Nicholas (mostly Tracy), this morning I was a loosely bundled pack of nerves. Somehow, talking it over made it worse, and now that I was
Similar Books
