is far from ideal, but I’m willing to tackle it head-on.
Dr. Carter said I have one month—four weeks, thirty days—to live. Time is ticking away, and it’s time I don’t want to waste fighting. But I can’t force Roman to live. He may have done so with me, but deep down, I wanted him to. I needed someone to fight for me when I was too scared to.
When June told me about Scarlett, before I knew who she was, I remember thinking how ironic her dying of a hole in the heart because I’m sure June felt that every single day when thinking about her. But now, that’s exactly how I feel.
If my day wasn’t filled with enough drama, my dad called and said they returned from Europe early. He wanted me to come over for dinner. I could sense the seriousness to his tone, and although I wasn’t in any frame of mind, I agreed.
The moment the door opens, I know my father sees it. “Are you all right?” he asks, clearly concerned.
“I’m fine. Just a little dizzy. I didn’t sleep well.” I quash down my sickness, playing it down, as I don’t want to worry him. “Why are you back early?”
My father welcomes me into their palace, while I attempt to block out the bad juju this place has. I attempt to walk, but my legs give out on me, and I go down.
“Lola!” Thankfully, my dad catches me before I hit the hard floor. “You need to lie down.”
“I’m fine,” I reiterate, but my trembling body says otherwise.
He ignores me and leads me into the living room. It takes five minutes for the room to stop spinning.
“Stop worrying.” I smooth out the crinkles between his furrowed brows.
“Impossible.” He places a hand to my forehead. “You’re running a fever.” He goes to stand, but I snare his wrist.
“I’m okay. I saw Dr. Carter today.”
Dad’s ears prick. “Dr. Carter? Why are you seeing him?”
“I’m undergoing a new trial,” I reply, not having the heart to tell him the truth until after dinner.
“You are?” My father looks at me like he’s only just seen me for the first time. “I didn’t know, Lola. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” I decide to leave out the fact that until I met Roman, I didn’t even know I wanted to live.
He has never been one for words, but I just assumed it was because my mom did all the talking. But now that he’s not shrouded by her overbearing shadow, it’s like I too have just seen him for the first time. “I let you down. I am so sorry for everything. Your mother—”
“Let’s not ruin a nice conversation,” I butt in, not wanting to hear any excuses for her.
He pulls in his lips, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair. “She loves you. There are things about her…”
I scoff, leaning backward and folding my arms in defiance. My nausea has thankfully passed, replaced with indifference. “It’s fine. You don’t have to make excuses for me. She is what she is.” I refrain from saying what she is―a gigantic, judgmental bitch.
“I think your mother would like to know about these developments.”
“I doubt it.” My refusal hurts. I can see it, and I instantly feel guilty.
Thoughts of June and Roman’s strained relationship play over in my mind. If Roman could forgive his mother, then maybe I should too.
“I’m going to use the bathroom.” He reads my need for silence and nods.
Once I’m steady enough to stand, I take a detour to my old room. The bright pink ballerina music box catches my eye. I remember when my mother gave it to me. I was eleven. She wanted to buy me some fancy riches, but all I wanted was that damn music box. The wind-up ballerina inside, snuggled among the pink silk, was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I would sit for hours watching her dance, wishing I could mimic her graceful movements because I had two left feet.
My mom used to brush my hair while I watched the ballerina spin to Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. I reach for the box with trembling hands. It feels so small, but I suppose my hands have grown since the last time I picked it up. Holding it up to eye level, I close one eye, wishing I viewed the world how I once did. Turning it upside down, I wind the small copper handle and run my finger across the ballerina mid-pirouette.