I met his eyes and quirked a brow. “Sorry, all I heard was an annoying squeak.”
“Fucking crazy bitch,” he mumbled into his cereal.
Before I could respond, Celeste appeared. “Morning.” She headed straight for the refrigerator, grabbing a carton of juice. “You want?”
“No thanks,” I said, hovering by the coffee maker.
“Rough night?”
“You could say that.”
Max stood abruptly, the stool scraping across The Rowe-Delacorte’s expensive parquet flooring. “I’m outta here.”
“Where are you going this early?” Celeste asked.
“Like I’d tell you.”
“Max, come on. Mom won’t—”
“Mom can eat shit.” He stalked out of the room, taking the air with him.
Celeste let out a heavy sigh. “He’s so angry. I don’t know how to reach him anymore.”
“He’s an entitled brat.” Her eyes flashed to mine, and I shrugged. “What? It’s true. Your mom demands respect and decorum, but it isn’t a substitute for actual parenting. He has too much money and freedom and he thinks no one cares.”
“I care.”
“Yeah, but you’re his sister. It’s not the same.”
“You know, sometimes I think you were sent to us on purpose.”
I bristled, my fingers curling around the edge of the counter.
“I don’t mean…” She let out a soft sigh. “That came out wrong. I just meant that you have a unique perspective because you didn’t grow up here.”
“It’s fine,” I said.
It wasn’t, but whatever.
For as much as Celeste tried to pull me into their lives, their family, the truth was, I would never fit. Because you couldn’t fit somewhere where there had never been space for you.
Michael Rowe had gotten my mother pregnant—a young woman seven years his junior—and made her choose. Her life in Old Darling Hill or the baby he would never recognize as his own.
She chose me.
And in the end, it killed her.