Author: Cassia Leo

Chapter Ten

I hear her car pull up outside – not that I’m listening for it. I immediately click off the TV show I’m watching about man caves and leap off the sofa. When I open the front door, Senia’s walking up the path in a sapphire-blue dress that hugs her curves, a black trench coat and black heels.

“Did you get dressed up to come here?” I ask with a grin and she rolls her eyes.

“Well, I wasn’t lying in bed in a fucking trench coat and heels, but I was wearing this dress. I always wear dresses. You know that.”

I do know that, yet, even with the easy access of simply pulling up her dress, this didn’t make it easy enough for us to hook up until last week; until she was wearing a skirt. Maybe the dresses are a curse. I should rip it off her right now to find out.

Settle down, Tristan.

When she steps inside the house, I find myself feeling a bit self-conscious. The house looks fine. It’s pretty tiny, but it’s completely remodeled. I can’t remember if Senia has ever been here, but I don’t want to admit this.

“It looks different,” she says as she looks around. “I guess you and Chris really took care of your families after you hit the big time. What’s that like?”

“What’s what like?”

She turns to me and fixes me with a worried stare. “Having a family to take care of?”

Her words stop me cold. “I never really thought of it that way. I just do it because it’s my job and … and I love them.”

She shakes her head as she looks away. “I’ve never had to take care of anyone. Even when Sophie was a baby, my parents never made me change diapers or babysit. My older sisters did that. I don’t know how to act like a mother, much less be one.”

“You want to take off that coat?” I ask as I shut the front door.

“I’m fine. I can’t stay too long. I just wanted to talk about … you know.”

“Sit down,” I say, placing my hand on her back to guide her toward the sofa. As soon as I feel the coolness of her coat under my hand, a worried thought crosses my mind. “Is this coat warm enough for the snow? Snow season starts in a few weeks. Do you need another coat?”

She takes a seat on the sofa and looks up at me as if I’m an alien. “I have other coats, thanks.”

I sit next to her and chuckle as she scoots a few inches away from me. “Are you afraid of being close to me?”

“Yes.”

“I can keep my hands to myself. You sure you don’t want to take that off?” I ask, giving her sleeve a soft tug.

“I thought you said you could keep your hands to yourself.”

“I didn’t touch you. I touched your coat.”

She narrows her eyes at me and leans back to get more comfortable. “Aren’t you going to offer me something to drink?”

“You can’t drink in your condition.”

“Why, yes, I’d love a glass of water. Thank you.”

I smile as I make my way into the kitchen and take a glass out of the cupboard above the sink. I head for the refrigerator to get some water from the door, but the sound of the house phone stops me. I hurry back to the living room to grab the phone off the receiver. I don’t want the ringing to wake up Grandma.

“Hello?”

“Hello. This is Carissa’s mother. I’d like to speak to Molly’s mother or father. Are they home?”

“This is her brother. What happened to Molly?”

“I really think I should speak to her parents.”

“They’re not here,” I snarl. “Where’s Molly?”

“Well, that figures. Molly is in Carissa’s bedroom … drunk. Somebody needs to come pick her up.”

“I’ll be there. What’s the address?”

Carissa’s mother hangs up after she gives me the address and I stare at the phone for a moment, in shock.

“What’s wrong?” Senia says, reaching for the empty glass I set down on the coffee table in front of her.

“My sister Molly’s drunk. I have to go pick her up.”

“Drunk? Isn’t she, like, ten?”

“She’s thirteen.” I toss the phone onto the sofa and she quickly stands up.

“I’ll go get her. You have to stay here with your grandma.”

I look at her and I’m surprised to see that she’s serious. She wants to pick up my drunk, teenage sister. Fuck. Molly’s drunk. Well, what did I expect? She’s seen me drink away my troubles for about nine years. And I don’t think my troubles will ever compare to the pain she must be feeling over Grandma.

“You don’t have to do that,” I reply. “I doubt this is how you wanted to spend your Thanksgiving.”

“Hey, I have a lot to be thankful for today. Let me do this … as a friend.”

I can’t help but smile at these last three words. “I think we’re way past that,” I say, reaching into my pocket for my car key. I grab her hand and she swallows hard as I softly place the key in her palm. “Take my car.”

Chapter Eleven

Senia

Tristan programs the address into the GPS in his silver sports car then stands back and watches as I put on my seatbelt. I’m having a little trouble getting the buckle into the slot with my shaky hands. I can’t believe he’s entrusting me with this thing, but he insists that if Molly is going to throw up in the car, he’d rather she do it in his than mine.

“Remember, this is a British car, so the GPS has a British accent,” he says with a warm smile. “And don’t press to hard on the brakes or the accelerator. Just let yourself get a feel for the car. This ain’t a Ford Focus.”

“Ha, ha. I don’t have the Focus any more. I gave it to Claire, remember?”

Oh, what would Claire think of me now? Driving Tristan’s car … picking up his drunk sister … carrying his child!

“Yeah, that was very generous.” His eyes get a little unfocused as his mind wanders off, then he blinks a few times and looks me in the eye. “Be nice to her when you pick her up. She’s losing the most important person in her life.”

I nod and turn away from him, pretending to look at the passenger seat as he closes the door. I crank the key in the ignition and attempt to keep from crying as I recall my Grandma Elena. She passed when I was ten, but she had lived with us all my life. My mom wouldn’t let me go to the funeral. She said I wasn’t old enough. One day she was there, sitting on the sofa watching Mexican soap operas. The next day she was gone. That was eleven years ago and I still expect to see her sitting there every time I come home.

I can’t imagine what Molly must be feeling right now, but I do know that she probably needs something that no one can give her: a promise that everything will be okay.

I have a very choppy drive to Carissa’s house on Bedford Avenue near Pollock Place Park. I get a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach when I see the name Pollock Place Park. It makes me think of Tristan Pollock, then I think of Yesenia Pollock. So stupid. Tristan is not the marrying kind, even if he is acting like a complete weirdo since our meeting at Yogurtland.

I pull up in front of a house on the corner of Bedford and Taylor and take a deep breath as I shut off the engine. A woman with brown, frizzy hair is standing in the threshold of the front door with her arms crossed and a sour expression that matches her shitty sweater. This woman does not want to mess with me when I’m hormonal.

I climb out of the car and stuff the car key into my coat pocket. She looks surprised to see me. Then she steps aside and Molly steps out the door, nearly tripping over the woman’s loafered foot.

I rush to the door to help Molly since this bitch has no intention of doing so. When Molly sees me, her eyebrows shoot up and a faint smile materializes on her slack, drunken features. Molly is such a pretty girl. I’ve only been to Tristan’s house once, a couple of years ago for Molly’s birthday party, but she has the same glossy, light-brown hair as Tristan. She doesn’t have Tristan’s gray eyes. Her eyes are a golden brown, muddied now by the haze of alcohol. This was me last year, before I met Eddie and stopped drinking so much. I hate the fact that that controlling, manipulative asshole is responsible for anything positive in my life.

“Carissa is sleeping off the whiskey, in case you were wondering,” the frizzy-haired woman proclaims as I grab Molly’s arm to hold her upright.

“I’m very sorry about this. I don’t know how they could have gotten the alcohol. I mean, it couldn’t have been here, in this house, could it?” I reply with as much phony concern as I can stomach.

Frizzball narrows her eyes at me. “She’s not allowed back here, ever again.”

“Well, she’ll be devastated to hear you’re closing the open bar. But I’m sure she’ll get her fix somewhere else.” Molly doubles over as she cackles at my response and I wrap my arm around her waist to keep her from toppling over. “Come on, girl. Your brother is waiting for you.”

Molly’s left hand latches onto my coat and we hobble down the long walkway toward Tristan’s car. We’re a few feet away when she begins to retch. I scoot back to get out of her way and maybe grab her hair to hold it back, but I don’t step out of the way fast enough and her watery vomit splashes over my shoe and the pavement.

“Sorry,” she mutters before another stream of vomit spews forth.

This time I’m able to pull her hair back and take safety behind her as she finishes. It must be fifty degrees out here, but her face is red and sweaty and I’m not looking forward to riding home in Tristan’s fancy car with the stench of vomit wafting up from my foot. I help Molly into the car and her head flops to the side as I buckle her seatbelt. I take off my shoes and spend about five minutes looking for the button to pop the trunk. I throw my heels in the trunk then I slide into the driver’s seat and head back.

We’re nearly there when Molly mumbles something I almost wish I didn’t understand. “I hate my life.”

I wait until we’re stopped at Hillsborough and Dixie Trail before I say anything. “Do you want to go straight home or do you want to go somewhere and sober up first?”

“I don’t want to go home like this.”

“That’s what I thought. We’ll go hang out for a little while.”

I drive her to a local burger joint and order her some French fries so she can get something in her stomach. I text Tristan to tell him we’re grabbing a bite to eat, then we sit in the parking lot as she nibbles the fries and I wait for her to say something.

“Are you Claire’s friend?” she finally asks.

“Her very best friend.”

“I miss Claire,” she whispers. “Don’t tell Tristan I said that. I said it in front of him a few weeks ago and he got pissed.”

He probably got pissed because, according to bro-code, you’re automatically supposed to hate the girl who broke your friend’s heart. Of course, Tristan probably doesn’t know the whole story behind Chris and Claire’s breakup. I probably don’t even know the full story. And this animosity Tristan holds for Claire only reminds me that there is one more obstacle standing in the way of Tristan and me – the truth. I don’t know Tristan very well. He doesn’t know me or my best friend. And there’s no denying it, Claire is my fucking soul sister. I can’t be with a guy who doesn’t love and respect her.

“I won’t say a word. Do you want to talk about anything else?”

She shakes her head and sets the bag of French fries on the floor of the car next to her feet. “I want to go home.”

When I pull into the driveway of Tristan’s grandma’s house, he’s sitting on the front steps waiting for us. He gets to his feet quickly and immediately heads for the passenger door to help Molly.