Page 13 of Before We're More Than Friends
“You are my second mom.” And my only mom who could function.
She sighed, holding up her hands. “I better not get fired for this.”
I gave her a grin. “I don’t think you’re going to get fired for losing a game of UNO. But you never know.”
She scoffed, shaking her head with a smile. “Challenge accepted.”
Arielle’s white Audi pulled up outside of the building a minute after my meeting with Susanna ended. I hopped into the passenger’s side and searched through my purse to make sure I had everything with me.
You know, other than my sanity. That was long gone.
“How did it go?” Arielle asked, waiting for me to finish examining my bag. “Did you beat Susanna in UNO again?”
“Of course I did.” I stopped rummaging through my purse before shuffling through it again. I never was able to shake the feeling of something missing. Not until I reached four times.
Arielle patiently waited for me, shifting to my favorite radio station. Over the years, she’d gained more patience with my OCD and did her best to make things easier for me. We went from being sisters who were always at each other’s throats to best friends.
I checked my purse two more times, trying to be as quick as possible, just to relieve the compulsion. When I put my bag under the seat, Arielle drove off.
“Did the session make you feel better?” she asked. “About our whole situation?”
“A little bit.” At least the part where I’d forgotten about everything made me feel better. “She did her job as usual.”
“Good.” She gave me a faint smile, focusing on the road.
We stayed silent for a few moments before I asked a question that had plagued my mind for the past few weeks. “Do you need someone to talk to about it?” Arielle had never been in therapy, and even though she was the “normal” one, sometimes I wondered if she needed someone. Sure, she had all ourfriends, but she liked to keep her bright façade on around them.
We were completely identical on the outside—wavy golden-brown hair, light blue eyes, and five-foot-five frames with hips that would make a Kardashian jealous—but were socially nothing alike. She was bubbly, always invited to parties and being asked out on dates. I didn’t have an extroverted bone in my body and lived off sarcasm. For the most part, there was nothing wrong with that.
But if we had one similarity, it was that neither of us liked talking about our family situation. She just had an easier time not letting her pain show while it took all my strength not to break down in public.
We were just two girls caught in the crossfire we called home.
Arielle’s face hardened with my question. “I’m good,” she said, keeping her voice light to mask how she felt.
I nodded and let it drop.
“Gosh, I can’t stand stupid rush hour,” she muttered as traffic went to a standstill. “I know you hate driving, but I can’t wait for the day I don’t have to be the one who sits in this.”
I bit my lip, anxiety rising in my chest from the idea of driving. So many things could go wrong. A car could fly at us when they were the ones who were supposed to stop, we could take a wrong turn and crash into someone else, we could get lost?—
Stop it.I drew in a sharp breath and managed to force a laugh.
Arielle picked up on my anxiety because she gave me a sympathetic smile. She didn’t say anything for the rest of the car ride, and I didn’t either. I hated the awkwardness that loomed over us, but there was nothing we could do to fix it.
Around twenty minutes later, we arrived at our two-storyMediterranean monster of a house. You would never think from the outside that everything was crumbling apart on the inside.
Just like me.
There was a strange pain that came with living in a home so big but so empty.
I opened the front door, welcomed by the huge foyer. Arielle bolted straight for the powder room, whatever she’d drunk earlier finally catching up with her. Dad was sitting across from me in the grand living room. The fake fireplace sparkled not too far from him. I checked the door four times to make sure it was locked before taking my shoes off.
Dad’s dirty-blond head bobbed as he looked up from his fitness book. Even from the distance, I caught a glimpse of the black monitoring bracelet on his ankle. “Hey,” he said with the smallest smile. “How did therapy go?”
“It went well.” I returned the small smile, my insides twisting. I hated coming home every day to seeing him here.
“I’m glad.” He nodded. “Francesca will make dinner in twenty minutes or so.”
