The Sister (The Boss 6)

Yet, deep inside my stupidly optimistic heart, a clawing need to forge some kind of bond with her gripped me. How could you even think of doing something like that to your family? How could you throw away what you always wanted?

I wanted to leave the bathroom. I really did. I just couldn’t move.

Instead, I studied my face in the mirror and tried to remember those pictures I’d seen on Facebook. I could still see the similarities between Susan and me, the ghost of Joey Tangen molded into our flesh. Genetics would never let me forget.

Another thought occurred to me, one that filled me with terror so sharp that it could have punctured my lungs. What if she’d seen that accidental “like” when I’d been scrolling through her pictures? What if she’d come all the way here to accuse me of being creepy, obsessed, unwelcome in her life? What if she’d been so furious that she’d traveled to Brooklyn from Nearly-Canada, Michigan to demand an explanation for that violation of her privacy?

There’s no law against using Facebook! I fumed then felt stupid for having a mental argument over something that hadn’t happened and wasn’t likely to. When would it ever occur to someone to go that far instead of just emailing or picking up a phone?

I couldn’t keep her waiting forever. I had to make a decision. Would I face her, or not?

I cupped my hands under the faucet and slurped a drink from them then checked my makeup. Urban Decay setting spray saved my ass, yet again. No matter what happened, I would not lose my composure. I wouldn’t yell. I wouldn’t cry. I wouldn’t have a panic attack.

I would be Sophie motherfucking Scaife.

Squaring my shoulders, I pushed through the door and strode down the hallway with my head raised high. With every step, my confidence built. I’d been through worse than an awkward confrontation. I’d been coldly chastised by Gabriella goddamn Winters, the Wicked Witch of the Upper Westside. This was not going to beat me.

I opened my office door said quickly, “Sorry for making you wait—”

And the words died in my throat. Sitting at one of the chairs in front of my desk, her back ramrod straight, was Susan. She was actually there, not as an abstract concept or a hypothetical. Flesh and blood, my flesh and blood. And she looked just as upset and terrified as I had staring at myself in that mirror.

She pushed her chair back and stood, awkwardly thrusting her hand at me like she was on a job interview. Maybe she was. I had no idea what she wanted from me.

“I’m sorry to come without calling. I didn’t know…” She grimaced and closed her eyes. “I didn’t know how to call. Or how to get in touch with you. You’re kind of…”

“Hard to track down,” I admitted guiltily. “You could have gotten my number from the reunion committee, I bet.”

“I didn’t really know who the reunion committee was.”

Silence lapsed between us.

“So, um.” I sat in my chair. Having the desk as a physical boundary between us made me feel a little calmer. “What brings you to New York?”

“Trade show,” she said quickly. “Travis’s dad is trying to expand throughout the Midwest, so he’s trying to make some contacts and see what other companies are…” She made a gesture with her hands, looking more helpless by the minute.

If she’d come here to be confrontational toward me, she wasn’t doing a very good job of it. That was a relief. But since I didn’t know why she was there to see me, specifically, I couldn’t think of a response. We ended up just staring at each other. Probably just for a couple of seconds, but it felt like a micro-eternity.

Finally, she sighed and looked down at her hands, her brow furrowed. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

“I…” What was I supposed to do? Reassure her?

“Travis doesn’t know I’m here. I haven’t told him anything about you.”

A tide of anger rushed through me, shocking in its intensity. It took every ounce of strength I had to control it. “Well, I guess I’m easy to forget. And cover up. And ignore.”

She looked up, utterly stricken. “I am so, so sorry.”

“About what?” Suddenly, my anger and hurt didn’t seem all that ridiculous or unwarranted. It was like I’d only just realized I was allowed to have feelings on the subject. That I didn’t have to earn the right to feel cheated or slighted. She didn’t have to give me permission. “About the fact that my father died and nobody bothered to tell me? Or even include me in his obituary?”

“I didn’t know how to contact—”

“You found me, now. You found me when you wanted to.” My jaw tensed until it ached. “Did you know about me?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “But not until Dad was dying.”