Well, if the mountain won’t come to Mohammad…
It was time to pay the Thorne family a visit.
As if reading my mind, my sister’s name appeared on the phone screen in my hand. I felt slightly alarmed. Hera did not call me all that often. Maybe once a month to tell me how big of a screw-up I was. My existence seemed to embarrass her, but not enough to warrant an interaction with me. Sometimes I wondered, if my parents had known what kind of woman I’d grow up to be—would my mother still have chosen to keep her pregnancy with me?
I swept a finger over the screen and put my sister on speaker.
“Hey,” I said, trying to sound neutral, but fully preparing myself for a verbal whiplash.
“Hey, are you feeling better?”
“No.”
“Great. That must mean you’re making progress. When are you coming here?” She sounded disinterested and a little annoyed. Like I somehow should have predicted she wanted to talk to me and called her myself to save her fingers the stress of dialing.
“Never, if it’s up to Mom and Dad,” I joked. Flinging myself onto my bed, I began browsing through online catalogs on my phone. I could never just speak on the phone without doing something else. It seemed like such a waste of time.
“Yeah, well, the rehearsal dinner is in a few weeks, and you’re invited. So.” She left her sentence hanging.
I liked how she said I was invited. Like your sister has to be invited to your wedding. I knew, in fact, there had been discussion of leaving me out. And though it didn’t surprise me, it hurt me a lot. Craig, her fiancé, and I didn’t exactly get along.
“We still have weeks until then.”
“You need to come for the dress measurements,” she countered flatly. “Plus, it’s been a long time since you paid Mom and Dad a visit.”
“Well, when do you want me in Dallas?”
“Next week.”
“Next week?” I felt my hands becoming clammy, and my feet going cold.
“Yes,” Hera said impatiently. “There’s a lot to discuss. Just book a ticket, will you?”
“I—I can’t,” I stuttered.
“You never miss measurements for a premiere or a new club opening,” Hera drawled.
Actually, I recycled dresses like crazy, but when had Hera ever taken the time to get to know me?
“Random—I mean, the bodyguard—took my credit cards. I don’t have a way to book tickets.”
“Oh.” The surprise in her voice gave me a glimmer of hope. Maybe she’d step in and tell Mom and Dad how horrible he’d been to me. “I’ll give you my credit card details.”
Her spurt of altruism surprised me to a point I almost felt touched, which I hated myself for. I lived on those crumbs of small gestures from my family.
“But don’t go crazy. Just buy what you need, or I’ll tell Mom and Dad.”
“Okay. Thank you.” I had no idea what else to say with some level of dignity.
“And please pack some respectable clothes, if you have any.”
By the chatter around her, about polish colors and different foot treatments, I could guess she was getting her manicure. Hera always got the same thing—a short, natural, gelled French manicure. “I mean, I know you’ll never cover those horrid tattoos, and I can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. But can you at least wear something that doesn’t scream dominatrix in a sex club?”
Sex club.Sometimes I suspected my twenty-nine-year-old sister was actually ninety-two.
“I serve at your pleasure,” I joked. “Consider it done. And I—”
I started to tell her that I was excited for her, but she’d already hung up on me, as I was midway through spewing sentimental words at her.