“I am totally making BFFs with Bitsy,” Zen says with a contented sigh as they eyeball the leftovers that will feed us for at least one more meal. “Do you think she needs an extra kid? Or grandkid? I volunteer as tribute.”
“Do you?” I ask.
They make a face at me. “I do in my head where it all goes the way I want it to. You do the dishes and put the food away. I’m stuffed. Do you think Bitsy needs a kidney? I’d give her one of my kidneys for that meal.”
Between the food and my body warming up inside the cozy townhouse, I’m mellow enough to laugh at that.
They take off, and after I straighten and clean the kitchen, I head upstairs.
I need to distract my brain, and I have a puzzle up there.
The bedroom is as comfortable as the first floor. Queen-size bed. Rustic wood frame. Matching dresser. Plastic potted plant in the corner. A window looking out into the darkness, but which has an amazing view of snowcapped mountain peaks during the day. Poster print of a waterfall on the white wall that separates my rental from Sabrina’s townhouse.
I stare at that wall entirely too long.
Maybe a puzzle wasn’t the best thing to do in here.
Now I’m wondering what her relationship with Chandler is like.
If it’s just as messed up as my relationship with my siblings.
If she’d get it if I told her why I have to do this.
Why I wanted so badly to see her sparkle and smile in the car while she was driving me home when I was coated in food and should’ve been irritated.
While ignoring all of my messages means that the barrage of texts have slowed down, I’m still sitting on one more note from my sister that I thought was normal until Zen crashed into my life seven years ago.
Uncle Grey, it’s not okay for Aunt Camille to accuse you of not caring at all about her feelings just because you don’t want to renew your membership to a country club that you never go to and never felt like you fit in at. When does she think about your feelings?
I don’t need my sister to care about my feelings.
I need her—and the rest of them—to let me live my life on my own terms without constantly accusing me of trying to make them all miserable.
I don’t care if they’re happy or if they’re miserable. I care that they do what they need to do to get themselves however they want to be all by themselves.
My phone dings as I’m reaching for it to shut it off, and there go my shoulders again.
It’s Vince.
Bastard sent a photo of the lab I built with my first big paycheck, the place that I felt most at home, most free to be myself, and wants to know if I’m honestly going to let it fall into ruination when we all know that if I came back, I’d solve a few more problems for the bees and the world.
That spikes my blood pressure enough that I have to breathe through thick dots overtaking my vision for a few minutes before I quit shaking enough to shut my phone off and take it downstairs to let it charge overnight in the kitchen.
That.
That’s why I’m here.
Because all of the people in my life think I’m a robot who doesn’t care about anything, when the truth is, I care too much about everything.
Vince is right.
I should be in my lab right now. Where I own all of my own research, where I’m free to work on any project I want and where I read that contract that he put in front of me instead of simply signing it on blind trust.
Instead, I’m on a mission to right the first of many, many wrongs, and everything about me righting a wrong feels wrong.
All because of what’s on the other side of my bedroom wall.
I’m full.
I’m showered.
Teeth brushed.
Warm in sweatpants and a hoodie and wool socks.
Complex wooden puzzle of a jungle cat on the small desk in front of me.
Good light.
All of my basic needs taken care of.
And I can’t get out of my own head.
A door closes on Sabrina's side of the wall. There’s soft humming. I recognize the tune. Something catchy. A pop song that I’ve heard a million times at the café the past two days. Waverly Sweet sings it, I think.
It gets closer to the wall.
Closer.
Closer.
And then there’s something worse.
A low buzzing noise.
Buzzing, but not bees.
Steady, louder, then softer, then louder again.
Like she’s moving around something that’s vibrating.
Every last ounce of me loses all focus on anything but the sound.
Sabrina Sullivan is mere feet away from me—separated by a wall, but mere feet from me—and she’s using a vibrator.