The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(55)

Phoebe


I should’ve gone down with my Louboutins on that first day here in Tickled Pink.

That would’ve been easier.

Instead, I’m groaning with every step as I descend the high school’s musty-smelling staircase to the basement, shower caddy in hand, wrapped in my bath towel, to the sounds of Carter wailing the same two lines over and over again—you don’t love love love me like the moon moon moon, you don’t light light light me like the moon moon moon—his amp dialed up high enough that they can probably hear him all the way up in the Milky Way.

I’m wearing noise-canceling headphones, and I’m still in danger of going deaf.

At least Carter’s wailing is canceling out the sounds of Tickled Pink Floyd moaning and muttering in the air ducts.

I glare at the vent at the bottom of the stairs. “Come out and fight me, you asshole ghost. I’m in a mood.”

The ghost doesn’t materialize.

Naturally.

Because it’s a ghost.

Except it’s not, because ghosts aren’t real. It’s probably a Bluetooth speaker hidden somewhere deep in the vents that someone in town is using to try to scare us away.

I’d give them a high five of appreciation—hell, I’d give them a billion dollars—except the ghost ploy isn’t working to scare Gigi away. And on top of not working, it’s waking me up at night.

If I actually fall asleep in the first place, that is.

My mattress is hard as a brick. Gigi ordered two-hundred-thread-count, scratchy cotton sheets for our new beds, and I forgot to order myself new Matouk percale sheets and new silk pillowcases when I was on the internet at school this week. And my body is so very tired and sore in places I didn’t know it could be tired and sore after days of painting, cleaning, weeding, mowing, and hauling junk.

Hence the groaning.

Except, in the middle of the night, I’m not always sure the ghost isn’t real. I swear I saw something ghostly when I got up to try a yoga routine to help me fall asleep the other night, and I swear it was carrying a heavy scent of chocolate with it.

Possibly it was the ghost of my pre–Tickled Pink life.

The one dying a slow death in the gossip pages in New York right now while Fletcher threatens to fly here himself to retrieve the watch that I told him I gave to a charity drive at work, despite all the ammunition he’s giving the tabloids.

Bonus tonight?

A thunderstorm’s rolled in, which means everything inside this depressing high school is dark enough to require that we have the lights on already, and they’re flickering from the pull that Carter’s amps are putting on the electrical system.

No problem.

Wanna know why?

Because I’m about to take a cold shower to wash all the lake water off me.

Again.

Because it’s “good for character growth.” We haven’t earned hot water yet.

Not if all our attempts at fixing the plumbing have failed.

And they have.

Spectacularly.

It’s a sign from God, Gigi says.

I march around the corner at the base of the steps, trudge past a row of empty trophy cases marked for donation to a school somewhere else, since Gigi wants the trophy cases in the Estelle Lightly Memorial Exhibit for Good to be hand carved by some artist she knows back in New York, and stomp into the girls’ locker room.

I don’t know where Tavi is. Probably hiding in her room, or maybe she’s waiting out the storm somewhere. She’s exercising like a fiend when she’s not helping around the school, and she’s rarely here when we have time off. I literally don’t know how she’s not dying right now, considering her diet is basically like three chickpeas, cucumber water, and undressed spinach.

Mom’s hiding in her room, no question, which is a nice break from her offering to do breakfast, lunch, dinner, and shopping with me every day this week.

She wants out of Tickled Pink like most people want vegetables to taste like ice cream, and I’m the only family member officially authorized by Gigi to leave the town’s boundaries.

I’d like to have more patience for her efforts to get to know me better again, except I feel as though it’s all for show.

Like I’m her secret project from Gigi.

Maybe Tavi was right. Maybe Mom does want to have a better relationship with me, and that’s the only fault Gigi can find with her.

It’s not like she’d be kept out of heaven for knowing her husband cheats on her and doing nothing about it or for being a second-rate designer, and Mom fully owns every way she’s ever blackmailed, manipulated, and insulted everyone around her.

You can’t make a person grow a soul if they don’t want to.

Which would mean Mom cares about me more than I thought she did.

If I’m her project.

And suddenly I’m not sure of anything at all again.

Dad’s painting the cafeteria. I’m assuming Gigi found out about his trip to see Jane yesterday and is threatening to tell the Remington Lightly board that Dad’s infidelity is grounds for dismissal, not just a leave of absence.

Probably also that she’ll revoke his membership to the Bergamot Club if he doesn’t paint the cafeteria, which might be the bigger threat. I don’t know if he loves golf most or if he loves being a member of the golf club most, but I know it’s the worst thing she could threaten him with.