Page 7 of Collide
Her excitement is adorable.
I look at her in mock horror. “I’m a vegetarian.”
Her face drops.
“Kidding!” I snicker, shaking my head.Oh, Pip, you’re too easy.
Rolling her eyes, she tuts as she makes her way back into the kitchen, shaking her head with a fond exasperation, reminding me of when we were kids. It’s a small moment, but it tugs at something deep inside me—something warm, something that reminds me we are sisters, even if it doesn’t always feel like it.
“Make yourself comfortable. Do you want anything to drink?” she calls out as she walks away.
“Coffee, please!”
I settle into the white plush lounge, gazing out at the stretch of Central Park below—its green canopy seems out of place against the towers of concrete giants surrounding it. The park and I have that in common. I’ve never felt at home here, always out of place beneath the weight of the Montgomery name, especially beside my sister, who always knows exactly what to say and how to behave. It isn’t her fault—she’s just as much a victim of our circumstances, she just happened to handle it better than I did.
The weight of my thoughts nests deep in my chest, pressing hard against my ribs.
My eyelids grow heavy, and exhaustion finally wins.
I let it pull me under.
Surrendering to the quiet.
“Eleanor,” calls a voice. My thoughts are blurry. Wait, no one calls meEleanor. My eyes shoot open, and I realize I drifted off on the couch.
“Sorry,” I mutter automatically, wiping drool off my face before rubbing my eyes.
Shit. Mascara.
“Don’t be sorry. You’ve had a long day. I’d be exhausted too after flying coach.” He chuckles, and my eyes finally meet his.
“Father.” I frown. His not-so-subtle jab at my choice to fly coach doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Hello, Eleanor.” He smiles softly. I roll my eyes. I haven’t been called Eleanor in years. I don’t know why he persists with such formalities.
“It’s EL-EY-NAH,” I respond petulantly, pronouncing each syllable of my preferred name. Everyone calls me Elena.
“Sorry, Elena. Look at you—you’ve changed so much. It’s been far too long,” he says, shaking his head like he’s brushing off the memory of our last encounter.
“Yup.”
“You still look so much like your mother,” he adds with a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. For a second, I’m struck by how much older he looks. Those five years carved lines into his face that I don’t remember being there.
“Please don’t.” I raise a hand to stop him. He has no right to bring her up.
I shift, sitting up straighter from where I’d half-dozed on the couch, suddenly alert. I’ve been told all my life I looked like her,but I don’t see it. She was a beauty queen. I’m not a crown-wearing, pageant-perfect kind of girl.
“Well…except for those beautiful eyes.” His grin is full of smug self-importance, leaning back into the armchair like that little genetic match makes me his property. His eyes—the same blue—hold a familiar glint of amusement.
I grip the edge of the couch, resisting the urge to roll mine, already irritated, unsure what game he’s playing.Compliments? Really?What, butter me up before the slaughter?
“I assume Philippa’s told you about my gift,” he says, rubbing his hands together, brows arching like this was some exciting reveal.
“Yeah. About that—” I square my shoulders, already shifting into negotiation mode.
“Is something wrong?” he asks, rubbing his forefinger against his lip like he’s about to launch into some patronizing monologue.
Yes!The fact that he can’t see what’s wrong with gifting someone an entire apartment is beyond me! He knows exactly how I feel about him showering me with lavish gifts, like a convertible Mercedes on my sixteenth birthday! What sane person does that?
