Page 67 of Hot Tea & Bird Calls
“This isn’t a deep, dark family secret. You’re...” Celene flicked a speck from the top of the chair. “Flighty.”
“And Celene,sister, this is why I invited Quinn to my wedding.”
Stunned by the double whammy—a resurgence of ‘Sister’ used as an insult, and honestly, a sort of betrayal. “Why? To fuck with my life?”
“Quinn destroyed what you two had with her avoidance issues, but I’d been around for a few key moments. When you’re unhappy, you don’t play fair. Quinn struggles to keep upin disagreements, not to mention she’d been too embarrassed to argue around our family, and you didn’t care.” Elise grew viciously serious, like a daytime soap actress. “You needle and won’t let a fucking point go?—”
“You’re boring me. Quinn and I were more tit for tat than you know.”
Eyes shimmering, Elise stood. It didn’t sway Celene, aware of her actor’s ability to cry on demand. She’d abused this talent. “Listen to yourself. That’s not how someone ready for a relationship speaks. Are you gonna talk to Skye that way?”
Celene clenched her jaw. Consciously, as she couldn’t break their staring match, no matter how much her blood boiled. “I’ve worked on myself.”
“Some work.” Elise turned to snatch her bag off the couch. “Do our family a fucking favor and gallivant off to another retreat or fill out a gratitude journal or sleep through a sound bath at Joshua Tree. Since you’re too good for us.”
Barely absorbing anything past the comment about Skye, Celene marched to the door, swinging it open so strongly, it shook the frames on the wall with a bang. “Leave. Now.”
Elise pawed for her sunglasses, silent before the direction sank in. “Gladly.”
Petulant, rude, presumptuous little brat. It took a special brand of spite to side with her ex-fiancée. Quinn moved across the country without telling anyone, leaving Celene to return to an empty home. To an engagement ring left behind on the living room table.
To heal, Celene had gone on journeys away from the Vales and their ignorant comments and relationship glorification.
Her hand tensed onto the edge of her doorway. She loved silence, though it would be satisfying to slam the door at Elise’s back.
Getting in the way of that, Elise stopped short. Her chin dimpled in a laughably intense scowl—she’d never resembled their mother more. “I came by for a happy occasion. Not for criticism.”
Celene had perfected her impassive face. She used it on her clients during their hissy fits, too. “Cheers. You got a little extra.”
Elise wouldn’t ever cower from a dramatic exit. Storming out, she screamed, “You’re impossible!” so hard Celene’s ears rang.
In her own fit of drama that would probably get her neighbors talking, Celene hollered to Elise, who’d been punching the elevator down button. “The house ismine. I can’t wait to hammer the realtor sign on the front yard myself, and I will throw a fucking party when it’s sold. A party overseas, away from any of you, since I’m such a scourge to our family.”
Then, she slammed the door.
It didn’t satisfy her. At all.
Celene stomped in long lines through her living room, crossing corner to corner, around the furniture, intent on stabilizing her acute, erratic panting. It eased her enough to do box breathing next, to occupy her mouth, her lungs. One of the very first effective techniques she’d learned in the retreats her sister mocked.
Yes, as the relationship with Quinn deteriorated, Celene’s pain would translate into initiating days-long arguments. They’d been draining, bitter, and ran them into circles instead of each other’s arms. Quinn hadunderstoodCelene, didn’t judge the qualities that separated her from the Vales, an admittedly okay group of people. Because if Celene had friction with her familyandwithin her love life,shewas the common denominator, right? Celene was the problem.
That led to constant quibbling, desperation sharpening Celene’s words as the woman she once obsessed over watchedher with dull, empty eyes. And regretting what she’d become, Celene would lock herself in their bathroom and break down, gasping for solace and losing.
Presently, she reflected on Ramona, Quinn’s better match. On how her weird references and excitability flowed well with Quinn, in some unexplainable harmony.
Celene and Quinn had been good, sure, but not harmonious.
Breath controlled and leg muscles pleasantly aching, Celene tumbled onto the couch.
These three years of growth weren’t in vain. Celene had evaluated her half of the issues with her ex-fiancée and did the fucking work to find some solutions, like means to endure rejection. Nobody in her bloodline gave her credit for that.
For all she knew, they expected her to repeat her mistakes.
With Skye.
Celene had accepted more work consultations and was woman enough to admit why: to distract herself. Other than the grandfather texts, she and Skye remained drearily cordial, if not too safe. Because of that kiss.
Eyes on her window, Celene tracked nails onto her arm, over the tattoo. Usually, the row of elegant townhouses and tailored nature soothed her. But all she could think of were clouds, walls of trees, inconvenient rocks. A tear sneaked from her eye, tracing her cheek.
