Page 80 of With a Cherry On Top

I swallow against the agony that’s making my chest feel like a prison, my anger deflating in an instant. I hate that she’s kept this a secret, but I try to remind myself that she’s not just my and Logan’s mom, not just Darren’s wife either. She’s the one who’s going through this, the one with thecondition.

I squeeze her hand and nod, trying to reassure her without words. The second I open my mouth, I’ll start bawling. I can feel it.

Mom’s sick, and that’s terrifying.

But the scarier thing?

Mom’s the healthiest she’ll ever be again.

CHAPTER 15

The Taste of Almost

Amelie

Hey, I thought I was supposed to forget my friends once I became famous, not the other way around.

Istudy the unanswered message, the timestamp from this morning, then the previous green bubbles I haven’t responded to. I can’t bring myself to. Not when there’s nothing I can tell her. I can’t tell her about Ma when she hasn’t even opened up to Logan, I certainly can’t tell her about Charlotte.

And I don’t like lying to Amelie.

I slip the phone in my pocket and step up to the porch, exhaustion settling deep in my bones as I fit the key into the lock and open the door. The house is dark except for the glow of the TV, flickering in the living room like a heartbeat. It’s later than I wanted it to be, but I made sure my mom was settled at home and waited for Darren to be back.

I made her tell him. I agreed I won’t tell Logan for the time being—she says he should enjoy the happiness of being a newparent, though we both know that’s bullshit—but Darren needed to know. Someone needs to help her, to keep an eye on her.

When I left them, he was still crying.

I shrug off my jacket and step toward the living room.

And then I stop.

The place is a wreck.

The coffee table is covered in nail polish bottles, cotton balls, cucumber slices, and what looks like a billion different lotions. There are empty chip bags, a bowl of popcorn tipped onto the floor, and half-eaten candy scattered like someone got distracted mid–sugar rush. The remnants of pancakes and their fixings sit abandoned on the dining table, next to an open bag of marshmallows.

And in the middle of all the chaos sit Sadie and Charlotte, fast asleep on the couch—Charlotte with her head tilted back, Sadie curled into her side, and the smug gray-and-brown cat stretched across both their laps like she owns the place.

They’re both wearing robes, sleeves comically long on Sadie’s tiny frame. Towels are wrapped around their heads, slipping slightly from sleep, and their faces look shiny, like they went to town with whatever lotions are spread out on the table. Sadie’s head is pressed against Charlotte’s shoulder, her little fingers still curled around Charlotte’s hand.

I stand there, frozen in the doorway, watching the steady rise and fall of their breaths.

Sadie looks peaceful. Content.

And Charlotte . . .

She’s holding my daughter’s hand, even in sleep. She must have let her paint her nails, because there’s no way Charlotte willingly chose that neon purple polish. And she’s here, in my home, like she belongs.

My gaze flickers to the coffee table, to her laptop, still open, the screen dim but not dark. I glance at Charlotte before mycuriosity gets the better of me, then I tilt my head, just enough to see what’s on the screen.

A job announcement.

It’s an entry-level position at a local fashion designer. Office assistant. Is she considering an alternative to modeling? Could she be thinking of pursuing her art?

Ireallyhope so. That the conversation we had after the concert struck a chord.

I crouch in front of her and gently tuck some hair behind her ear.

Beatrice has been gone all weekend, but she might be back by now, and it’s already so late. I can’t risk getting Charlotte in even more trouble. I have to wake her up.

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