Chapter Twelve
“Your brother wants to come see you.”
Quinn took her phone off speaker and lifted it to her ear. A pang of…something…tightened her stomach. “Mom, no. Impossible.”
Her mother sighed. “Honey, he’s lonely at Foundations, and I think a change of scenery would do him wonders. You’ve got a big villa all to yourself.”
“I’m lonely, too”—spending evenings by herself, reciting lines to an empty room and regretting an apparently unrequited attachment to a certain hard-assed trainer tended to do that to her—“but I’m not on vacation. I’ve got less than two weeks to finish prepping for my role, and I don’t have time to entertain Callum. Besides, I’m not an addiction specialist.”
“You don’t need to be. They have them on Paradise Bay. You just need to be a supportive sister.”
“His doctors recommend shuttling him here for a change of scenery?” Frustration leaked through in her tone. “Because nobody from Foundations reached out to me with the request.”
“Of course not. To them, he’s simply another client, and they recommend he stick with their program. But you know how much it would mean to him, and you’d be a positive influence…”
“Gee, Mom, remember how well it worked out last time I tried to be a positive influence?” She meant Callum falling off the wagon and ending up back in rehab. Her parents had no idea he’d messed her knee up in the process.
“A week, Quinn. I’m not asking you to let him move in with you again, but surely you can spare him one measly week?”
“I can’t, even if I thought it was a good idea.” Unfocused energy propelled her up from the sofa, and into the kitchen. “I’m here to work. An entourage isn’t permitted.” She didn’t even want to think about how Luke would react if her brother suddenly arrived on the scene. Tempting as it was to give in to family pressure, and, yes, her own chickenshit desire for a buffer, or a security blanket, or a way to distract herself from the harsh truth that she’d fallen head-over-heels for a man who saw her mainly as a debt to repay, she couldn’t do it. She’d have to cope with her bruised heart on her own. Since her awkward apology on the beach, Luke had been making it easy—or diabolically difficult—by keeping their interactions steadfastly professional and otherwise keeping his distance.
“Callum is not your entourage. He’s your brother, and he loves you.”
She jerked the refrigerator open. “I love him, too, which is why I told him I’d treat him to a vacation here, or anywhere else he wanted to go, once he finished his program and I finished the movie.” Bottled water and raw broccoli spears were not going to fill the gnawing hole in her gut. She slammed the fridge and sagged against it. “A few months from now, he’ll be nearly a year clean and sober, hopefully reclaiming his life, and I’ll have time to actually hang out with him. Deferring until then gives us both something to look forward to.”
“A reward months away isn’t going to cut it. He needs something now. Imagine what the last several weeks have been like for him, stuck in the same place, surrounded by the same faces. You know as well as I do, a stagnant environment depresses creative souls. And depression undermines his recovery.”
“His constant urge to escape from whatever’s going on in his head undermines his recovery,” she argued, and approached the fresh goody basket some uninformed member of the housekeeping staff had left on the kitchen island. “He’s made progress, but he’s coming up on a milestone, and shit’s getting tough. His commitment is wavering.” She placed the small bunch of bananas on the counter. “This is so textbook even I can diagnose it.” Two apples followed. “He needs to buckle down and learn how to deal with life—including the inevitable boring, lonely, and depressing parts—not look for a quick, painless eject out of a situation he doesn’t like.”
“Easy for you to say, Quinn. You’re steadier than he is. You always were, right from the start. You don’t have his flashes of brilliance, but you don’t suffer the same lows, either. He came out of the womb needing more support. More attention. And if he can’t get it from the people who care about him, he’ll satisfy the craving somewhere else, in a less positive way.”
The double-edged words barely stung her anymore. In Ann Sheridan’s eyes, Callum would forever be the fragile genius, and Quinn the determined worker bee, overcoming her natural mediocrity through sheer strength of effort. And to an extent, their mother saw them fairly. But fair or not, she didn’t have enough strength to be her brother’s safety net. “So what you’re saying is, if Callum quits rehab and relapses, it’s my fault?” The empty feeling in her stomach yawned as she waited for a reply. She picked a mango from the basket and
squeezed it like a stress ball.
“I’m saying we’re his family, and he needs our help.”
“I have tried to help him.” She put the mango on the counter and pawed through the remaining items. A couple snack-sized bags caught her eye. “I gave him a place to live.” She plucked out one bag—roasted plantain chips. “When that went south, I gave him access to the best rehab facility my money could buy.” She lifted the other bag—toasted coconut chips with sea salt and caramel. Sweet. Salty. Forbidden. Her mouth watered. “I don’t have anything else to give. Not right now. If Callum stays put, if he realizes nobody’s going to rescue him from himself, I think there’s a decent chance he’ll ride out this phase and learn how to manage the lows.”
“I’ll come with him.”
“That doesn’t change my mind. Look, if you and Dad believe Callum needs a vacation from Foundations I can’t stop you from—”
“Your father refuses to discuss it. He just buries himself in work and says he can’t possibly get away. You know how he is.”
Yes, she did. Her father thought it was a terrible idea, but dodged the issue because he didn’t want to alienate anyone. Quinn scrubbed her tired eyes. “Right. So here’s what’s going on, Mom. Dad’s sidestepping because he hates to be the bad guy, and you know you can’t handle Callum on your own, so you’re trying to rope me in.”
“He wants to come see you. He’s begging me. He says he’s not going to make it if he doesn’t get out of that place for a little while. You’re twins. You have a special bond.”
“He wants to escape. At this particular point in time, you can’t trust him to know what he needs. You have to trust the experts. He can do this, Mom. He can do this if he commits.”
Her mother’s sigh flowed over the line. “You honestly believe he can do this on his own?”
“Yes. He’s not as fragile as you think.”
And I’m not as strong, she silently added.
“I hope you’re right,” her mother replied before she disconnected.