Page 4 of Dearly Unbeloved
“Stop writing your stupid quiz answers on my shit,” she mutters, but there’s no heat in her words. Something’s rattled her. Something that isn’t me, for once. I might care enough to be worried—again, if she wasn’t so fucking insufferable.
But she is, and I don’t care that something’s bothering her. I should just take it as a win. Only one pissy comment, instead of the usual twenty-five the second she gets home, should be a relief. Especially after the day I’ve had. I should keep my mouth shut and take it… but I’m predisposed to snap back at this point.
“It’s not a stupid quiz just because you’re shit at it,Cannon.” I fully expect her to shoot daggers at me. But she doesn’t. She just lifts a shoulder indifferently.
“Doing well on a pop culture quiz about celebrities and gossip I don’t care about isn’t exactly high on my priority list,” is all she says as she opens the fridge and grabs a bottle of rosé.
She gets a glass from the cabinet and pauses in front of the island. With an inhale, she slowly pushes a pink pothos plant to the side without a word and sets the wine and the glass down.
I feel my face pull into a tight frown. “Did someone die?” I ask, standing up and hovering by the couch.
Rose raises a perfectly arched brow, unscrewing the bottle top and pulling her glass toward her. “No.”
“Did you fuck up and accidentally facilitate the spread of some deadly disease?” Truthfully, I don’t really understand what she does at work, but I expect that would count as a terrible day.
“No.”
“Did your coworkers finally call you out for your glowing personality?” I say sarcastically, and her stony expression slips. Bingo.
A split second later, she’s back to the pretentious ice queen I know and hate, just in time for her to stop the wine from overflowing. She sets the bottle down and rolls her eyes.
“Maybe I just don’t want to talk to you. Oh wait, it definitely is that.” She puts the half-full bottle back in the fridge and bumps it closed with her hip. “Clean thisshit up,” she says, and then she’s gone.
“A delight, as always,” I mutter under my breath as I hear her bedroom door close.
Despite Rose’s one-bunch rule, I kept my vase collection when we moved in together. I like to switch them out, depending on the flowers. There’s a thick layer of dust on most of them, since whoever designed this apartment thought the aesthetics of open shelving were more important than the practicality of doors, so I grab a few and set them in the sink to wash.
Usually, since I only get one bunch at a time, I buy them pre-made, but I went all out today, buying bunches of individual flowers so I could make the arrangements myself: snap dragons, lilacs, carnations, sweet peas, roses, and a bunch of mixed greenery to fill out the displays.
I hear the whirr of Rose’s treadmill from her room seconds before her workout playlist blares through the apartment. Our building has a gym, but she never uses it. She runs outside before work and on her treadmill after work. Forty-five-minute runs, twice a day, every day, even on major holidays. At least her playlist is good, and I find myself humming along as I trim stems and carefully arrange the flowers.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been so snippy. She’s clearly had a bad day, and, as much as I’d rather not breathe the same air as her, I don’t have to be an asshole. I’m not like this with anyone else. Rose just brings out the worst in me.
3
ROSE
The living room is a common space. That means I get to put my stuff there too. I’m so sorry for your loss. - S
Thank god for my sister’s best friend. Maggie is the most organized person I know, and knowing she’s coming on this trip is the only reason I stopped protesting when Jazz told me my presence was required.
A little over four hours before our flight is due to take off, right on schedule for pick up, there’s a knock at the front door.Thank you, Maggie.
I wouldn’t usually take a full day off work for an evening flight, but it took Jazz so long to confirm the flight time that it was just easier. And it’s been nice to have the day to make sure I have everything ready.
It would’ve been nicer if Sierra hadn’t also taken the day off, but I’ve kept out of her way. I have no idea why she chose today of all days, but her boss, Maggie’shusband, Cal, pushes his employees to take Fridays off when they’re not too busy. From what I can tell, he mostly does it so he can take the day off to hang out with Maggie without feeling guilty.
I open the apartment door to let them in, and Jazz skips through the doorway, Maggie following behind.
“Hey. Just let me grab my bag—I’m all packed.”
“Of course you are,” Jazz says with a snort, shaking her head. “I bet you were packed days ago.”
“For the last time, it’s normal to pack in advance,” Maggie says, with an air of exasperation that tells me it’s not the first time they’ve had this conversation this week. How Maggie and Jazz’s friendship has survived for so long, I’ll never understand. I love my sister, but she’s complete and utter chaos. Maybe they balance each other out.
I run into my room to pick up my bag, running my gaze over everything to make sure it’s in order before we leave. When I make it back to the living room, Jazz and Maggie are still bickering.
“It doesn’t matter when you pack as long as you make it for last call at the airport,” Jazz counters, and Maggie just sighs. “I bet Sierra’s still throwing the last few things in her bag.”
