The Silent Sister(103)

“Did you tell her the truth?”

Jade shook her head. “Never,” she said. She wondered how Celia could even ask.

“Maybe it would make a difference,” Celia said. “Maybe she’d understand then. Right now, she’s upset with you, and that’s only going to make things worse for us.”

“How can they be any worse for us?”

Celia didn’t answer. She ran her hand over the puffy comforter on the bed, chewing her bottom lip. What could she say? Things were as bad as they could be.

“I have to try to talk to her tomorrow,” Jade said. “I can’t let things end on a sour note between us like they did tonight.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“I have her address in my contacts.” She looked into Celia’s silvery eyes, so full of hurt. God, she was ruining everything for everybody she loved! “I hoped this would never happen.” She shook her head. “I’m so sorry.”

Celia stared at her for a long moment. Then she stood up and turned toward the window, looking out into the darkness. It was nearly two in the morning. Chapel Hill was asleep. So were Shane and Travis, in the room connected to theirs by a small living room. The men were blissfully unaware of how everything would change for them in the morning.

“We need to tell the guys,” Jade said.

Celia didn’t answer her. Instead, she lifted her backpack from the dresser and walked out of the bedroom into the living room. Was she going to tell Shane and Travis right now? Jade sat woodenly in the chair. She heard Celia moving things around in the living room for a few minutes, but she stayed where she was. Even when she heard the door to the hallway open and close, she didn’t move … but she did breathe a sigh of relief. Celia wasn’t going to tell them yet. Jade knew her well. Celia just needed time alone to think. She needed time to come to the conclusion Jade had already reached: it was over.





55.

Riley

After three weeks away from home, I felt like a stranger in my own apartment. When I got in, I lowered the air-conditioning and made my bed, moving on autopilot, trying not to think about the conversation with Lisa. I needed comfort food but my pantry was nearly empty and whatever I’d left in the refrigerator gave off a rank odor when I opened the door, so I made a cup of chamomile tea in the microwave, then forgot to take it out. Instead, I lay down on the couch and stared at the dark ceiling.

I kept picturing her face. The pale blue eyes. The sharp features. The lines across her forehead, especially when I’d gotten angry with her. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected to happen during our meeting, but feeling anger toward her had been unexpected. Seeing her full life made the current emptiness of my own life stand out. That was hardly her fault, and I wished now that I hadn’t acted like an obstinate adolescent, pushing her away before she could push me.

My phone rang and I pulled it from the pocket of my capris. Jean Lyons, the caller ID read. I’d wanted to talk to her but thought it was too late to call. I should have known she wouldn’t be able to sleep, either. I was about to answer the call when a knock on my apartment door made me jump, and I sat up quickly. No one knew I was in town. No one except Lisa. And she knew where I lived.

The knock came again, much harder and more insistent this time.

I slipped my ringing phone back into my pocket and walked over to the door, leaning close to it.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“It’s Celia, Riley. Please let me in.”

I rested my hand on the dead bolt for a moment before turning the lock. Opening the door a few inches, I saw Celia alone in the hall light, looking pale and tired. I was sure I looked equally as bad.

“Why are you here?” I asked through the opening in the doorway.

“I need to talk to you,” she said. “It’s so important, Riley. Please let me in.”

I hesitated. “Did Lisa send you?” I asked.

“No. I found your address in her contacts on her phone. I came on my own.”

I knew she didn’t like me and I was afraid of her reason for showing up at my door, but we both loved Lisa. We had that in common. I stepped back, opening the door.

“Come in,” I said.

She walked into my small living room. She still wore her clothes from the concert, the T-shirt and jeans, but her hair jutted up as if she’d been running a hand roughly through it, and her face had lost every trace of the joy she’d exuded while she was onstage. I would hardly recognize her as the same woman.

“Can we sit?” she asked.

I nodded, lowering myself to the couch. Celia perched on the edge of one of the two Ikea chairs in the room, elbows on her knees as she leaned toward me.

“I’m sorry for how I treated you at the club,” she said. “It’s just that … I know you didn’t mean to, but you’ve really messed up our lives.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. It was the truth, but their lives had been dangling by a thread for years before I came along.

“I wanted to talk to you about your brother and his cop friend. Does he—Danny—care about you?”

“Of course he does,” I said, “but it doesn’t matter. Believe me, I can’t fix this. If there was some way to do it, I would, but there isn’t.”

“Can you at least talk to him about it?”