Paris Is Always a Good Idea - Jenn McKinlay Page 0,9
haven’t been on a real date in years.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“How can you possibly understand how Dad feels about Sheri when you haven’t been in love since . . . I don’t even know when.”
“This is ridiculous,” I said. I needed some space. I took a restorative sip of coffee and left the kitchen to go sit on the couch. I pulled my knees up to my chest, pretending it was the cold making me hunker down.
“Look at you!” Annabelle gestured to my curled-up position. “You’re doing it right now. You look like a hedgehog, and your posture positively yells, Don’t come any closer!”
Even though I knew my sister was right, I wasn’t ready to surrender. “You know what? I should have known you’d spin all this around in your usual Annabelle way.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She picked up her mug and moved to the far end of the couch.
“I’m trying to discuss Dad’s marriage, and you turn it into a monologue about what’s wrong with me,” I said. “For your information, there is nothing wrong with me.”
“Great, then you’ll be at the wedding.”
Panic hit me like a double punch in the face. “No! I’m not . . . I didn’t mean . . .”
“Chels, I’m going to lay it out for you,” Annabelle said. “Dad is in love, and he’s getting remarried. You can either buck up and be a part of it, or you can continue to slowly fade from the family, as you’ve been doing, until we are a family in name only. Is that what you want?”
“No, but I can’t . . . What about Mom?” My voice cracked, and I took a deep breath, trying to ease the tightness in my throat. I lowered my knees and put my mug down on the coffee table.
“This isn’t about Mom,” Annabelle said. “This is about you.”
“What are you talking about? This is absolutely about Mom.”
“Chels, Dad is fifty-five years old. This may be his last shot to find a woman to spend his life with. Are you really going to deny him that because you want him to cling to the memory of Mom as tightly as you do?” she asked. “Mom wouldn’t want that for him, and neither should you.”
“You don’t know what she’d want.” Fury pounded through me. I hated this conversation, and I wanted to toss Annabelle out, but my sister wasn’t done yet.
“Yes, I do. Mom loved us, and she wanted us to be happy. If you want to honor her memory as much as you say you do, then you should get your shit together and figure out how to move on with your life, just like Dad and I have,” Annabelle said. “When was the last time you were happy or had a big, belly-cramping laugh?”
“I laugh all the time,” I insisted.
“Really?”
“I’ll have you know I follow several online personalities that are hilarious,” I said. “There’s one that features tiny hamsters eating tiny food, and then there’s a whole bunch of kitten videos—oh god.”
“To answer your question, yes, it’s as pathetic as it sounds.”
I dropped my head into my hand.
After a moment, Annabelle said, “I know the last time you were happy.”
I lifted my head and looked at my sibling in surprise. “Really? Because I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.” Annabelle put down her mug and rose from her seat. She crossed the living room, her boot heels clacking against the hardwood floor as she approached the bookcase that stood between the two large living room windows. She squatted down and scanned the books.
“There it is,” she said. She pulled out a scrapbook covered in dust from the bottom shelf. She returned and dropped it into my lap. “The last time I saw you smile with your whole heart was in these pictures.”
I glanced at the book. It sat like a cinder block on my thighs, holding me down.
“You spent the last three months of Mom’s life sitting by her bed, telling her stories about your year abroad, while you pasted this together. She loved your stories.”
Annabelle’s voice cracked. She swallowed hard, and I could see the grief in her eyes. I wanted to reach out and hug her, but I didn’t.
“You promised her you’d go back,” Annabelle said. She tapped the white leather cover of the scrapbook. “Aren’t you still in touch with some of these people? Maybe it’s time.”
“I don’t . . . I can’t,” I protested. “I need to think.”