The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(99)

Is the movie real?

Am I dead?

I blink through my hazy vision, stifling sobs and following the chocolate scent and the sounds of pop music coming from down a stairwell.

I want to be alone, but I also want chocolate. And a hug.

I want to be alone but have a hug.

Like always, I want the impossible.

I hit the massive community room at the bottom of the stairs, ready to pull my shit together and order whoever’s down here to hand over the chocolate and warn that if they tell that they saw me like this, they’ll lose whatever’s nearest and dearest to them, but the sight in front of me is one more surprise that I absolutely cannot handle tonight.

Tavi’s here.

Tavi’s here, stirring something on the stove, shaking her hips to the beat of the song and shoving a gigantic cheeseburger in her mouth.

I gasp out loud, and her head whips around so fast, cheeseburger still in her mouth, that I’m surprised her skull stays on her neck.

She sucks in a visible breath, eyes going wide at the sight of me, and while I stand there staring at her in shock, her own surprise turns to something else.

She tries to speak.

Her eyes get rounder.

She tries again.

And then she drops the burger and clutches her throat.

Oh my God.

She’s choking.

She’s choking.

She does this thing with her head and makes this face, and oh my God, now I’m killing my sister.

Her eyeballs go round.

She’s visibly trying to cough while she clutches her neck with one hand and pounds on her own chest with the other, and oh my God oh my God OH MY GOD.

First Gigi.

Now Tavi.

“No,” I sob.

I can’t see. I’m once again immediately crying so hard I can’t see, but I stumble around my sister, grab her from behind, and pump my fist under her breastbone.

Over. And over. And over.

I made her choke on a cheeseburger.

Why is it always beef?

“Don’t die,” I sob. “Please don’t die. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Phoebe,” she rasps. “Stop. Stop. I’m okay.”

“Don’t die!”

I take a sharp elbow to the ribs, and I realize she’s talking.

She’s talking, which means she can breathe, which means she’s not choking—was she choking? Did I save her? Or was she never choking? Oh my Oprah, I’m going to kill her with the Heimlich.

“Phoebe. Sit.” She shoves me to the floor. “What are you doing here? Why are you crying? What happened? Did Teague do something? If he hurt you, I will kick his ass from here to Mars and back again.”

I’m sobbing so hard I have the hiccups.

My face hurts. My mouth hurts. My eyes hurt. My nose hurts.

And none of them—none of them—hurts like my heart.

No.

No.

Shut it down, Phoebe. We’re a Lightly. We don’t let other people break us.

Except I do.

I have.

I need to go back. I need to go back to who I was before.

I need to hold on to something other than all my pain and disappointment and feelings of absolute futility.

“I killed you,” I gasp.

She shoves a cup into my hand. “Drink. I’m okay. And never eating again. But I’m okay.”

I try to drink, realize it’s just water and not vodka or tequila or liquid pot, which should be a thing if it’s not, and almost spit it back out.

“You’re eating a hamburger.” At least, that’s what I’m trying to say. I have no idea if my words are coherent.

“Oh my God, you’re hallucinating.” Tavi puts a cool hand to my forehead. “You poor thing. Did you eat too much of the fried chicken? Was it not cooked all the way through?”

I snag her hand and peer at her through blurry eyes as a tinny, feminine voice rings out separate from the rock music playing in the room. “Tavi? Tavi? Hello? You can’t just tell me to combine lavender and hazelnut in next month’s truffles and then disappear.”

I gasp again and try to glare at my sister through my blurry vision.

This is helping.

This is helping so much. “And you have cell service.”

I know that came out clear as day.

“Phoebe, that’s the music,” she says gently.

“Yes, the lavender and hazelnut,” I call out in a terrible imitation of my sister’s voice.

She blanches sheet white. Like, paler than the color of Lola Minelli’s face when she opened the door to her closet in the first episode of Lola’s Tiny House and discovered it wasn’t a closet but the outside world, because tiny houses don’t have closets.

My sister grabs my elbow and hauls me to my feet. She works out so much that she’s a beast like that. “Phoebe. Come on. Let’s go get some fresh air.”

“Tavi? Are you still alone?”

I channel my previous self once more and draw myself as tall as I can get, glaring at her.

Considering my eyes are puffy, my nose is, too, and my lips feel like they have permanent crusty cracks, I don’t expect it to be successful, but I have rage, dammit.

Or heartbreak that’s trying really, really hard to be rage.

I can’t find my rage.