“You aren’t alone,” I say as I study the tightness around her mouth, the bend in her shoulders, as if she’s curling in on herself. We have seven years between us, and that space has only widened since she had Londyn. I don’t know how to stop it. She used to smile more, used to laugh. Two years ago, her modeling career was blossoming, with exotic destinations and layouts in high-end magazines. Then she got pregnant. The final nail was her boyfriend dumping her. Gran died right after.
Her bottom lip trembles. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I should have texted. Forgive me?”
“Of course.”
“I’m glad you’re back. I felt so . . . lost when you were gone.”
I rub her shoulder. “I’m back. We’re gonna be fine.”
She chews on her lip, then says, “Look, Emmy, I’ve been thinking . . . even with both of us working, this apartment is sucking us dry. Each month, it’s hard to make the payments. We could sell, then cover the mortgage and make money.”
“What? No.”
“A bill collector called me while you were in Vegas.”
My hospital bills. They aren’t terrible—thank God for insurance—but it’s still money I’ve been putting elsewhere.
I’m not a quitter. Gran left us the apartment with the understanding that I keep it. “I’ll call them back and take care of it. We can’t sell, Jane. This is our home. If we did, we’d have to find something, and housing is expensive everywhere.”
She waves her hands around. “The stove doesn’t work half the time, we need a new water heater, and the electricity bill will skyrocket this summer. I miss Gran, too, but she isn’t here. She’s gone.”
My hands clench. “I can’t give up our home.”
Andrew waltzes in, grabs a plate of eggs and a bagel, then stuffs half of it in his mouth. “Yo, did I interrupt NATO negotiations?” He darts his eyes between us.
“No,” I say.
“Morning, Tiny,” Jane says, calling him by his childhood nickname.
“Aaaa, aaaa, aaaa” comes from Londyn as she holds her hands up for him.
He picks her up and dances with her around the room. “At least Londyn adores my company,” he says as he puts her down in front of her toys, then takes my hand and laces our fingers together. “Your turn, Ma. Let’s salsa.”
Setting down my coffee, I try to follow his lead but can’t keep up with his beat. “I recall a time when the only dance you knew was the pee-pee dance. Who’s teaching you?”
He waggles his eyebrows. “The girl at the library. She’s a dancer.”
“Stripper?” Jane snarks as she nibbles on a protein bar.
He dances us close to her and pops her on the arm. “No, dumbass. She’s in a show.”
“Don’t say ‘dumb a-s-s’ in front of you-know-who,” I remind him.
He swings me out, dances back, then dips me until my hair trails the tile.
“Help, Londyn. Your uncle thinks he’s Patrick Swayze,” I call out.
She claps her hands. “Eeee, eeee, eeee.”
Andrew bows. “And my job here is done. All the women are smiling.”
Jane sticks her tongue out at him. “You never dance with me.”
He pours himself a cup of coffee and clinks his cup with hers. “Next time I’ll teach you how to moonwalk. You can’t do it, and frankly, it’s embarrassing. For a model, you’re very uncoordinated and, dare I say . . . clumsy.”
I giggle. “Oh, the drama. Those are fighting words. We better give them some room, Londyn.”
Jane points a finger at Andrew. “You’re a turd. I walk a catwalk like I was born on top of it.”
“Anyone can strike a pose.” He throws his shoulders back, puts his hand on his hip, then struts across the floor with big steps. He stops and levels us with a haughty, squinty look.
I smirk. “Blue Steel. You’ve got it.”
Jane snorts. “You wish you were me. Oh, I forget, you’re too short to be a model, Andrew.”
“I’m six foot!” he calls. “And I never wanted to be a vapid model.”
“I’m not vapid, you Neanderthal,” she snaps back, “but I am taller.”
“By a quarter of an inch,” he retorts. “I’ve grown. Come on, let’s see who’s taller. Put your back to mine, and let Emmy measure.”
“Your head is bigger. Big, fat, ugly head,” she calls out.
I roll my eyes. “Children, please. Stop or I’ll put you both in the corner.”