Book 1 - Chapter One (1/2)
”Your baby brother called. Three times.”
My gaze snaps up from the mail I'm holding in my hands to meet Tori's dark eyes. She's ten feet away me, sitting behind the Formica countertops in the kitchen. My cool, confident roommate - who I met four years ago when she rescued me from a wasted frat boy - fidgets anxiously with the rim of a supersized shot gla.s.s that boasts some raunchy slogan. She knows my brother well enough to realize something is going on. It must be important because Seth wouldn't stop avoiding me for anything else. He's owed me two grand since July, six months ago, and the last time I actually spoke to him was Labor Day.
Even when Seth had backed out of visiting me for Christmas break, he'd done so via email.
G.o.d . . . this can't be good.
”Did he say what he wants?” I croak. I press my body up against the steel door behind me, the long row of deadbolts poking into my back. Crisp envelopes crumble between my fingertips, but I'm powerless to stop myself from obliterating the stack of bills and postcards from Tori's parents. I'm too worried about why Seth has called me.
Three times.
Tori shrugs her bare, s.h.i.+mmery shoulders, squints down at the splash of clear liquid in her gla.s.s, and then downs the shot in one swift flick of her wrist. There's no bottle in sight, but I know she's drinking peppermint schnapps. Her telltale bottle of a chaser (chocolate syrup) sits next to her phone. Plus, schnapps is her usual Friday night pre-gamer. Sometimes - when my boss has an off week that inevitably rubs off on me - I let Tori talk me into drinking a little. I'm in no mood to even consider touching the stuff right now, though.
There's already a migraine building in that frustrating spot between my eyes.
”He just said call him . . .” she says. But as her voice trails off, I know she's thinking the same thing I am.
What the h.e.l.l has my mom done this time?
Because last time I received a frantic call from Seth, a year and a half ago, Mom had made a suicide attempt which she later told me she fabricated for attention. I ball my hands into fist, vividly recalling how she laughed at me for being naive and stupid enough to come running.
”Always so quick to please,” she'd said in her thick accent. Then she took a long drag of a cigarette that she probably had to do unmentionable things for.
Forcing thoughts of my mother out of my mind for the time being, I give Tori a fake smile. ”You going out tonight?”
The answer is obvious. It is Friday night, and even though only her upper body is visible, I can tell she's dressed to kill. Immaculate hair and make-up, check. Strapless red dress that's probably no longer than my top, check. Her mile high, ”screw-me” shoes, double check.
”Vanguard with Ben, Stacy, and Micah.” Her jet black, perfectly arched eyebrows knit together as she parts her lips to say something else. I shake my head stubbornly, and she snaps her mouth shut. We both know that her inviting me is pointless. Tonight, no amount of sweet-talking will convince me to leave the apartment. There's a good chance that whatever Seth is about to tell me will ruin my night and the rest of my year, too.
I swallow hard, over and over again, in my best attempt to get rid of the burn in the back of my mouth.
”That's it,” Tori snaps. She reaches across the counter to grab her phone. ”I'm calling to cance - ” But I lunge forward and pluck the cellphone out of her hand. I drop the balled-up - and now practically fused together - pile of mail beside her empty gla.s.s.
”Please, just . . . don't. You look way too hot to spend your night with me. I-I swear I'll be fine.” She doesn't seem convinced because she purses her full lips into a thin, scarlet line. I slide her phone into her hands and curl her fingers around it. I move my face into an even brighter smile and tell her in the most chipper voice I can muster to have a good time.
She's talking, protesting me, but I can barely hear her exact words. I'm already walking down the narrow hallway to my bedroom, my own phone clutched in a death grip.
Seth picks up on the second ring, as I'm shutting my bedroom door behind myself. On those rare occasions that we speak, he always lets my call go to voicemail and then responds to me five or six hours later.
This is definitely not good.
”Thank G.o.d,” he hisses before I can get a syllable out. ”Where've you been, Si? And why the h.e.l.l didn't I have this number?”
Less than ten seconds into our conversation and Seth's arguing with me. I slam my oversized bag onto my bed. My wallet along with a bunch of tampons and makeup spill out onto the lavender cotton sheets and some fall on the carpeted floor. I'll clean it up later. ”I work. And I've tried to call you from this number several times. You just didn't answer.” I don't sound angry, which is how I feel, but like I'm explaining myself to my brother. Like I'm the one who should be sorry for him ignoring me.
I hate myself for sounding like that.
”Sienna, it's Gran,” he says.
And this - this is when I literally freeze in place, standing between my bed and desk. I must look like one of those tragic, serious statues in the cemeteries back home. My heart feels as if it's stopped. The first thing I'd a.s.sumed when Tori told me Seth was trying to reach me was that my mom had somehow gotten herself in trouble again. I hadn't even thought of my grandmother because she's so strong and resilient and wonderful.
She's also 79 years old.
I try to say something, anything, but there's a lump the size of a lint-flavored golf ball clogging the back of my throat. I'm choking and wheezing when Seth finally exhales an exasperated sigh and snaps, ”She's fine, Si. Well, physically fine.”
Then, he tells me what's going on. He says words like foreclosure and eviction notice. New owner - some douchebag musician from California. Court on Monday. And then he tells me that I need to be there for her, for him.
”I have to work,” I whisper. I can't imagine what Tomas will say if I ask for time off for anything besides a funeral or the certain impending demise of an immediate family member. He might fire me. Or worse, he might give me a horrible reference and I'll never get another wardrobe job for the rest of my life.
”No, you've got to be here.”
”Seth, I can't just . . .” But I'm already sitting in front of my laptop with my online bank statement pulled up on one tab and a discount ticket website on another. I'm already entering in my debit card information for an early Monday morning flight, biting down so hard on my lower lip I taste blood. I'm broke. Half of what's in my account - half of my total savings - will have to go to Tori for my share of the bills.
And before I hang up with my little brother, I'm already shoving my belongings inside of the beaten Coach suitcase my grandparents gave me five years ago as an eighteenth birthday present.
It's mind-numbingly cold in Nashville - 33 degrees to be precise - and snowing lightly when I scoot into Seth's messy Dodge pick-up truck on Monday afternoon. From the way I'm sweating, though, you would think it were the middle of August and that I'd arrived in Nashville dressed in head to toe wool. The flutter sleeve top I so carefully selected because it makes me look professional clings to my skin and the tops of my thigh high tights sag to just above my knees.
The sudden spike in perspiration is my own fault - I spent the entire four hour flight from California fretting over how I'd convince Gram to come back to L.A. with me. And the more I thought about it, the more doubtful I became. My granddad had built her that cabin and land as a gift after my mother was born in the early seventies. There's no way in h.e.l.l Gram's giving it up without a fight, even though from what Seth has said, the house is already gone.
”What'd your boss say?” my brother asks as he turns onto the interstate. He slams on the brakes to avoid hitting another car. The Dodge skids on the slippery road, jostling us around, but Seth manages to get the truck under control halfway into my frantic gasp.