The Watcher Girl(29)

“If you want me to . . .”

She pretends to swat at me and playfully rolls her eyes. “Don’t be like that.”

I think of Campbell and I change the subject. “You going to do the stay-at-home-mom thing?”

She wrinkles her nose. “That’s random.”

It’s not random. She’s pregnant. It’s a valid question.

“Just curious if that’s your thing. If you’re going to follow in Mom’s footsteps, or if you’re going to keep”—I struggle to remember her exact title, but then it comes to me—“influencing.”

“We haven’t thought that far out yet. Why? You want to nanny for us?” There’s a hint of jest in her voice and a twinkle in her baby blues. Maybe she doesn’t know me that well, but she knows me enough. “I’m kidding.”

“Good, because I’d be a terrible nanny.”

“You might surprise yourself.”

“Speaking of nannies . . . remember Autumn-slash-Sarah?”

“Yeah? What about her?”

I bite the inside of my lip. “I talked to her on the phone a little while ago . . .”

Rose careens her body my way. The screen on her tablet finally goes to sleep. “What? Why? What’d she say? Did you call her, or did she call you? How’d you find her? What’s she up to?”

All these years, I assumed Rose had forgotten all about her. Most people don’t remember the summer of their seventh year, or if they do, they remember it in inconsequential fragments. Lazy pool days. Bicycle rides. Barbie dream mansions. A favorite Disney movie on repeat.

I take a seat and leave a cushion to separate us. “I used my connections to find her. Just had some questions—mostly about my biological mom.”

Rose’s gaze softens. Sympathy, perhaps?

“Have you been looking for her? Your bio mom?”

“Not officially. But I’ve always wondered about her. She was never declared dead or anything . . . just missing. Was trying to find out a little more about her from Sarah, but she didn’t have much. Just told me she was troubled and sad and that she doesn’t remember what happened the last night she saw her.”

Rose is silent, her gaze fixed on the coffee table for a moment, and then she reaches across the cushion that separates us and places her hand on my knee.

“Obviously I don’t know what it’s like being adopted,” she says. “But I know what it’s like having an adopted sister—and I can tell you, Grace, I’ve never thought of you as being anything other than my sister.”

Her eyes well with tears, and her voice chokes.

She’s always been a crier, ever since we were kids. Everything made her cry. Kid movies. Baby bunnies. Broken toys. Exhaustion. She could go from frolicking around the yard with a grin plastered on her tiny face to turning on the waterworks at the drop of a hat.

Some things never change.

I’m still as a statue, and I avoid making eye contact. I don’t do mushy, gushy, or sentimental. It’s a language I’ve never spoken. I couldn’t formulate a response if I tried.

“You’ve been my sister—my only sister—my whole life,” she continues. “Adopted, biological, it’s all the same to me. Sebastian feels the same. You should know that.”

It’s strange to think of the two of them having that conversation, and it only serves to make me feel like that much more of an outsider, even if it’s not her intention.

She removes her hand from my leg. Though I still feel it there, an indentation of energy.

I clear my throat.

“Thank you for saying that.” I stand and adjust the hem of my shirt. I appreciate what she’s trying to do, but now I’ve got a dust storm of sentiments beneath my skin: hot, dry, gritty. It’s not even close to dinnertime, and already it’s been a day. “I’m going to grab a shower and finish up some work.”

“So tomorrow morning . . . you want to run to the store with me?” she asks before I’m out of earshot. “We can grab some flowers and some stuff to make brunch?”

None of that sounds like my idea of fun, but I know it would mean the world to her, and it wouldn’t kill me to try to be the sister she so desperately believes I can be.

“Yeah, okay. Sure,” I say.

“Pick you up at eight . . .” Her pink mouth arches into a tight smile, but her eyes are still glossy from before. It almost breaks my heart.

I check my texts on my way upstairs, debating whether or not I should reach out to Campbell to set up our coffee date now . . . or if I should give her some more time.

I don’t want to come on too strong.

But every day that passes is another day of the poor woman being stuck beneath Sutton’s thumb.

Locking the bathroom door, I strip out of my leggings and T-shirt and prep the shower, adjusting the water until it’s extra hot. And then I begin to tap out a text—only to have it interrupted by an incoming call . . .

Speak of the devil.

“Hey, you must have read my mind,” I answer, inserting a smile into my voice that lets Campbell know I’m glad to hear from her. “I was just texting you. Sorry about earlier, I—”

“Why did you ask if I was going to be okay?” Her tone is low, her question hurried.