Cooper (The Family Simon 6)

Sara snorted. “Pastor Richards has seven kids, so I’m pretty darn sure he’s had at least seven orgasms in his lifetime.”

“Six,” Morgan replied without thinking.

“Huh?”

“He’s got a set of twins.”

“You’re a comedian. Who knew?” Her sister made a face.

Morgan watched Sara glance at the bed. At the yellow-and-purple flannel pajamas. She reached down and ran her hand over them, the scarlet tips of her nails lingering along the frayed edges of the pants.

“I can’t believe you still wear these,” Sara murmured.

Something twisted in her chest, and it took a few moments before Morgan could respond. “They’re falling apart, but…”

“I still have mine.” Sara glanced up at Morgan. “Do you remember when we got them?”

Morgan didn’t answer because she couldn’t. So she nodded instead and stared at the floor, scrubbing at the fiery sting of tears in her eyes. It had been a mild Thanksgiving weekend, senior year. Her mother had insisted both girls accompany her to a local flea market, and against their protests, Catherine Campbell stood firm. Sara, a few years older and home from college, was hungover and annoying as hell, which only made things worse. Morgan had pretty much pouted the entire time.

Morgan inhaled sharply as images fluttered into her head. They were so vivid, it felt as if she could step inside them.

The bright sun making her wince as she followed her mother and sister around the market. The bare trees, ready for winter, that shot into the sky, looking like stick soldiers waiting to march. The sound of her mother’s laughter as Sara made a joke about baggy pants. The wind pulling at her mother’s long blonde hair.

And the smell of vanilla. Warm. Sugar. Vanilla.

They’d spent a few hours trekking up and down the stalls of the flea market, buying Christmas presents and the blue metallic wind chime that now hung on the back porch. By the time they reached the last row, Morgan was ready to go, but their mother paused at the last stall. And that was where she’d bought each of the girls a pair of purple flannel pajamas with little yellow swallows adorning them.

“So my girls will always come home,” she’d said.

Morgan had asked the question for both her and Sara. “What do you mean?”

Her mother had smiled, that gentle smile that made Morgan’s heart ache. “The swallows are symbolic. You’re my swallows. I hope you both return to me.”

Sara cleared her throat. Morgan’s eyes flew open, and the memories faded as quickly as they’d come. Her sister shoved her hands into the pockets of her silk jacket. “So when are you going back to his place? I could come and help you, maybe. If I can swing it with work.”

“I’m not going back.” Morgan met her sister’s gaze. “He didn’t want me.”

“What do you mean he didn’t want you?”

Charity case. Middle-aged. Cooper Simon’s deep voice slid through her mind, and she didn’t have to look into a mirror to know her face was red. Humiliation was something she’d gotten used to over the last few years. Ever since the night everything changed. But still, it didn’t make it any easier to take. The only saving grace had been the fact that Morgan was a pro at hiding her emotions. The mask she used day to day was always handy.

“Apparently, Charlie didn’t discuss hiring me with Mr. Simon, and he wasn’t exactly thrilled to find me in his house.”

Morgan shrugged and reached for her pajamas. “Whatever. It’s not as if this is my career choice, and since Dad doesn’t seem to care so much about the family business anymore, why should I?”

That was an understatement. Campbell’s Home Services was floundering, buried under the weight of her father’s drinking, the economy, and a general air of nobody-gives-a-shit.

Sara’s face softened. “You don’t have to do this, you know. You didn’t have to come back. I tried with him. Josh tried with him.” Her gaze slid from Morgan’s. “It’s partly why we split. We always seemed to fight over Dad and the business.”

Morgan was silent, clutching the pajamas to her chest. She knew the last few years had been rough on her sister. That watching their father spiral down into a bottomless pit of booze and self-pity had taken its toll. She knew that. But dammit, Morgan’s pain was just as deep. Hell no, it was deeper, and she was still sinking. California—the dreams she’d had—all of it had disappeared. She’d thought coming back here, being away from the life she could no longer have, would help.

But it hadn’t. She was just spinning her wheels. Just existing. That was how Morgan dealt with things. She hid behind a mask of silence while her sister Sara hid behind a mask of exaggeration. Sadly, both were forms of denial, and though Morgan was smart enough to realize this, she didn’t know how to fix it.

She supposed some things weren’t fixable. Like her leg. Her scars. The visible scars were bad, they were ugly as hell, but it was the others that hurt the most, the ones that were hidden. Those were the real bastards.

“Why don’t you come out with us?” Sara suddenly said. “I’m meeting a few girls at the Devil’s Gate. Really good band playing tonight.” She paused. “Hank will probably be there.”

“Will you stop with the Hank thing? He and I are never going to be a thing.” Anger rolled through her. “I’m never going to be anybody’s thing. I know it, so I wish you’d let it go.”