“Again. Bisexual.”
“No, I mean, him. Why him? Why not Damon or your manager Todd? Why not half the football team? Why my enemy?”
“He doesn’t have to be your enemy, you know. Maybe we should all go out one day, as friends. Me, you, him, and Leon.” She shrugs. “Get to know him better. Maybe he’s not as bad as you have him built up to be in your head.”
He’s not.
He’s so much more than what I expected.
I can’t admit that, though.
“I’m sure Leon would love that.” I let out a snort.
“What does that mean?”
“Like you don’t notice the way he looks at you.”
“As a matter of fact,” she grinds out, “I don’t. But, in case you need reminding, you’re not allowed to get jealous. You’re my friend, not my boyfriend. That’s it. Is this going to be a problem?”
“No, ma’am.”
She smacks my arm, grinning. “You’re such a dick.”
“You still love me.”
“Whatever, boy.”
I pull her to me for a long hug before releasing her. My spirits are lifted considerably knowing I haven’t completely fucked things up as far as Naomi’s concerned.
Now, if I could just figure out what the hell I’m going to do about Alis.
Intense violin playing can be heard upstairs, and for a moment, I wonder if Alis is here too. But, since I didn’t see his car out front, I can guess it’s just Carrie practicing. Mom isn’t in any of the front rooms, no surprise there, so I check her bedroom. She’s curled into a ball in the middle of the bed, breathing softly as she sleeps. Her purse is still on the bed beside her. When I pick it up to move it, something rattles. I set it down on the dresser and then fish out a couple of pill bottles.
Xanax and Prozac.
I suck in a deep breath and exhale slowly. She’s depressed, which is no surprise. But seeing the proof of it is difficult. My mood, which had improved after seeing Naomi, immediately turns bitter.
Walking upstairs, I make a beeline for Carrie’s room. She’s no longer playing the violin. I peek inside to find her lying on her back, texting someone.
“Staying out of trouble?”
She jolts at my deep voice and flips me off. “I’m being an angel, Dad.”
Dad.
She’s going to be pissed about what I have to say, but there’s no sense in putting it off. I let out a sigh and rip off the proverbial Band-Aid.
“You know we have to go to the wedding, right?”
She sits up, her blue eyes wide and horrified. “No. We do not.”
“We do. We’ll regret it one day if we don’t.” That’s a big fucking lie, but I made a deal with Alis. And keeping my end of the deal means saying whatever’s necessary to get my grudge-holding sister there.
“I will regret nothing. Maybe Dad will regret ruining our family.”
Frustration rattles through me. I guess this is what Naomi felt like any time I bitched about Dad.
“I can’t pretend to understand or know what Dad was thinking, but it still doesn’t change the fact he’s getting married, and we need to go.”
“It’s a betrayal to Mom if we go.”
“She already expressed to us she wants us to go.”
Carrie shakes her head, her nostrils flaring. “Because she had to. That’s what moms are required to say.”
“We’re going.”
“Canyon, I’m not. Stop it. Just stop it.”
“Carrie—”
“Why the sudden change of heart anyway?” she demands, her neck and face turning splotchy red with her anger. “Did Alis put you up to this?”
I flinch at her words, answering the question without saying anything. Her eyes narrow as she inspects me as though I’m beneath a microscope.
“What’s in it for me?”
Both my brows lift in surprise. “Is being a good sister not enough?”
“Nope.”
“What do you want?”
“To go with you next time you go to a convention.”
“So you can make fun of me the whole time?”
She smirks. “I mean, it has its perks.”
“You think it’s weird.”
“Well, yeah, but mostly I think you’re weird. Big difference.”
“Are you going to dress up too?”
“Probably not. I’ll merely be there to collect embarrassing evidence for years to come.”
A stupid smile breaches my face. No one, not even Naomi, has ever been into anime cosplay like I have since I was twelve and stumbled across an episode of Mubona Ikari one day on the internet. From that point on, I was obsessed. What was a childhood love for a Japanese cartoon eventually morphed into a hobby. I can’t draw for shit, but given enough time and supplies, I can look like just about any character I want from that show. My parents never quite understood it, but they never told me I couldn’t do it. I mean, they’re the ones who bought me all the stuff. And it was Dad who usually ended up going to the conventions with me.
“Ew. You’re doing it.”