"Not interested."
"You don't need to marry her. Just go out. Have fun. Realize there are more fish in the sea."
"Really?"
"Fuck off. I can be a hypocrite if I want." He is. He's been scorched Earth about romance since his ex left. There are no other fish in the sea. Not for Ryan.
"She's almost as young as Kaylee."
"She invited you to a bar." Ryan shrugs. "Your life. Do what you want." He motions to Anna's number. "You keep saying you don't want to be with Kay. If you mean it, then prove it. At least to yourself."
Chapter Six
Kaylee
There are a dozen boxes in the living room. The space is empty. Sparse. Soulless.
Mom is sitting on the couch, one hand in her lap, the other playing with the silver palm-tree tag atta
ched to her plain black suitcase. She might as well scream we're leaving California, we're leaving you, we're leaving our lives entirely.
She stands.
Her gestures are small. Quiet.
Her steps are nearly silent.
She picks her purse off the kitchen table and slides it onto her shoulder with tender care. Like it's some piece of fine China and not something we bought at TJ Maxx for forty dollars.
The table—the one that gives me bruises every time I bump into it in the dark—is one of the only things of ours left.
Okay, that's not fair. Most of the furniture is here. We're subletting the place furnished. For college kids, the ones that go to Santa Monica College on their parent's dime, the ones who can afford to have fun.
I shake my head. I'm not going to get jealous. Emma is one of those people. She can't help that she and Brendon inherited a fortune. She can't help that she isn't wound tighter than a ball of twine.
I have time, money, and space for fun.
The only thing stopping me is me.
"I wish we had more time." Mom's voice is as sad as her smile. She unwraps her arms, opening herself and inviting me in.
I don't want her invitation.
I want to tell her to go fuck herself. She can't un-invite me from my life then offer comfort. That's bullshit.
Them being vague about the details of Grandma's condition—that's bullshit.
It's not like Grandma is some relative we never see. She's practically my best friend. She taught me how to curl my hair, how to make an almond butter and jelly sandwich (cooking is one thing I still can't master), how to tell which games at the boardwalk were rigged (most of them).
We used to play with dolls and Legos and even Dad's Star War's figurines.
Now, it's more talk about boys and hair and school, but we're just as close. She calls every week. At least.
I want to yell and scream.
But I won't. I never do.
Someone has to be the one in control. The one who keeps it together.