Page 81 of The Final Rose

“Language, Dario. Lupita is under the weather.” Mom fusses.

“I wonder what she has.” Dario crosses his arms over his chest. “Such a long recovery.”

“No feet on my furniture!” To no one’s surprise, Mom slaps his smelly feet off the table, and I make a face of victory at him.

Maybe I have regressed a little since coming back home. But I need all the love and attention Mom is always ready to give. And I need the afternoons when Dad is back from work, and we play chess while he tells me long-winded stories about trees.

It’s… perfect.

I want to be cuddled and called by my childhood nickname. I want to feel protected and forget thatThe Final Roseever—

“Put the TV on,” are Ben’s first words when he arrives home, Dad trailing after him.

“Gladly.” Dario is quick to oblige, turning the TV right on.

“You got to be fucking kidding me!” I sneer.

“Language!” the other four Sosas say, and I narrow my eyes to my brothers.

Dario is always a couple of minutes early, coming in and annoying the life of me. Then here comes Ben, usually the last person at the construction site. Right now, their project is nearwhere Dad is working, so both trucks arrive at the same time most nights.

Usually, Dario annoys me and tries to steal food while Mom is distracted asking Dad about his day, and that’s when Ben disappears for a shower.

But no one is moving today. Dad comes over to give Mom a kiss, and I get one in my temple while I stand right where I am, watching my idiot brothers with narrowed eyes.

The TV is paused inThe Final Rose’slogo and I can’t stop but wince. This is all I wanted to avoid.

The season finale.

Maya, Abby, or Vera. Who cares?It's not me.

“Dario, maybe we should turn the TV off?” Dad asks with his gentle voice.

“Turn it off, dick face,” I tell him over gritted teeth.

“Now, Calliope, no name-calling.” Mom chimes in with an edge of warning in her voice. “But turn the television off, Dario.”

Dario smiles at me the same way he smiled when I caught him trying pot when he was fifteen. An unperturbed, cheerful smile. Either my little brother is the most relaxed person on earth or a psychotic murderer.

Right now, I’m the one ready to start the murdering spree.

Straight to the offensive, I leave my blanket behind and leap to the couch, reaching for the remote. Dario yelps, scrambling to hide it from me as Dad tells us to stop and Mom threatens to get us with a flip-flop.

I don’t hear any of my family. My heart is leaping off my chest, my breathing coming out in hurtful puffs. I’m not ready to see it. I’m not ready to hear Sebastian’s voice and sit there while he chooses the path of his heart.

During the weeks we had apart, I’ve been telling myself it wouldn’t matter the results. Anya decided he was going to choose Vera since she’s the fan favorite. Even though rationally,I know it isn’t really Sebastian’s choosing, my irrational heart can’t take it.

Reality is what we construct. Nothing is real until we make it so. And that’s what we do on reality TV. We distort the truth; we build around it and create whatever we want until truth and lies are so woven together that it’s impossible to tell them apart.

And that’s when the lies are true too, because enough people believe in it.

I hold back tears when I’m inches from scratching Dario’s face off. “Give me that remote, you turd!”

“Enough!” Mom’s voice cuts through. “Can't you see your sister is suffering?”

My arm stops mid-action, losing the strength of her words.

No,I’m sick.

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