Better Hate than Never (The Wilmot Sisters, #2)(11)

“Sorry about that,” she says, setting on the coffee table a paper bag that smells knee-weakening wonderful. “I come bearing doughnuts.”

I stare at the bag as guilt curdles in my stomach. Since coming home, I’ve managed to show up unannounced at my sisters’ apartment for an extended stay with no money to put toward rent (yet); I’ve had a throw-down fight with Christopher that took a giant crap on the Thanksgiving festivities in front of her and her new boyfriend; and from the moment I stormed out of Mom and Dad’s house and rode the train back into the city, I’ve been avoiding my sister entirely.

In other words, I’ve been a shit sibling. And what’s Bea done? Brought me doughnuts.

Sighing, I meet her eyes. “Thanks for this, BeeBee.”

“You’re welcome.” She smiles. Then she digs into the paper bag and pulls out the only thing that outstrips my love of pumpkin pie.

“So many doughnuts,” I whisper, peering in.

“Boston cream. Cake with sprinkles. Maple glaze with facon bits—”

“Hell, yes.” I wrench a maple and facon bits doughnut from the bag and promptly take a hearty bite that bursts with the perfect balance of salty-sweet. “So good.”

Settling back into the sofa, Bea bites into her cake doughnut. After another bite, then swallow, she glances my way. “So. You doing okay? You disappeared on Thanksgiving and haven’t surfaced since.”

“I’m sorry for being scarce, BeeBee. I needed some time to cool off. And I’m sorry for what happened on Thanksgiving.”

She stares down at her doughnut and picks off a sprinkle. “It’s no big deal.”

“It is.” I set down my doughnut and take her hand, my thumb tracing the edge of her beautiful tattoo sleeve, where a leafy vine curls along her wrist. “It’s been hard for you and Jamie, and I didn’t make it any easier on Thanksgiving. I lost my cool and made things uncomfortable.”

Which isn’t unheard of for me. I’m aware that I seem to feel things more intensely than most, and I know I have a short fuse, but awareness and knowing don’t always translate into preventing a behavior, something I’m grateful Bea understands.

Like me, Bea’s neurodivergent, though she’s autistic while I have ADHD. And while she doesn’t quite have the temper I do, she gets how hard it is to regulate your responses when you’re over-or understimulated, when your thoughts are splitting in a hundred directions, and your skin’s buzzing, and your brain feels like a Technicolor disco ball. My medication helps with this—it makes my thoughts flow better, allows me to complete multistep tasks that I’d otherwise struggle to stay focused on long enough to see through. Medication for me feels like I spend less time frustrated, spinning my tires, feeling like life happens to me rather than being something I actively choose.

But the great irony is that my naturally routine-disinclined, deeply curious, easily redirected brain needs to follow a routine in order to keep track of my medication regimen. On top of that, keeping track of my medication, which is already challenging for me, gets even more challenging with how irregular my work is, when I happen to be on a job somewhere that interrupts my routine and I miss a dose, or we relocate quickly, and I lose track of where my meds even are.

“KitKat,” Bea says gently. “Where’d you go?”

I shake my head. “Sorry. I’m here.”

Bea turns her hand so our palms meet and gives me a firm squeeze. “I didn’t bring up Thanksgiving to make you feel bad. I brought it up because I wanted to check in with you. Are you okay?”

I pull my hand away. “I’m fine.”

“You sure? Because what Christopher said really seemed to get to you. And I want you to know he doesn’t speak for us. None of us think of your being gone in terms of what you’ve missed.”

Of course they don’t. This is the crux of my family. My older sisters are twinny close. My parents are deeply in love. Then there’s me, the fifth wheel. They adore me. I know this. But I don’t have that connection with them like they have with each other.

I used to feel sad about it when I was younger, when finding people who could vibe with my busy body and brain and never-ending curiosity and always-changing interests was hard and I felt lonely a lot. But now I’ve found my own way, a life full of new experiences and adventures, fast friends whom I’m content to part ways with and lose touch with even faster. I’m frequently alone, but I’m not lonely anymore.

At least, not often.

And yet what Christopher said struck a nerve, reminding me how deeply I’ve felt left out. The things I’ve missed. Now Bea’s just confirmed how little that’s mattered to them.

“KitKat?”

I blink, forcing a smile my sister’s way. “I’m fine. Promise.”

Bea’s eyes narrow. “No, you’re not. And if Jules were here, she’d get it out of you.”

“If Jules were here, she’d side with Christopher.”

“She would not!”

I arch an eyebrow. “She works with him. She voluntarily socializes with him. She’s always sticking up for him.”

“Often, but not always. She doesn’t agree with everything he does. They have their disagreements, especially since he hired her to PR consult for his firm.”