Sage blinks, those huge blue eyes of hers practically pools of black right now. “I don’t know,” she whispers, the words catching in her throat.
My hand moves to her hip as though it has a mind of its own and I don’t miss the way her breath catches at the contact. “Yeah, you do,” I press, even if I don’t know exactly what I’m asking anymore.
She takes a breath, letting it out slowly as she whispers, “I thought…I thought I could get to know…get to know my dad.”
It feels like the first honest and real thing she’s said to me, and for some reason, it softens something inside me. I still have no idea what that asshole Pat said to her today, but I do know it wasn’t a long conversation.
I have to hope that maybe, just maybe, the more Sage gets to know Mitch, the more she wants to hang onto him. Which means she wants to hang onto his shop too. It’s selfish as fuck of me, but I don’t care. I’ll do anything not to lose this place.
“These guys,” I start, swallowing hard, unable to believe I’m actually going to do this. “They’re my friends. They’re Mitch’s friends too.”
“I get it,” she replies quickly. “I’ll go.”
She moves to walk away and my thumb presses into her hip, pushing her further into the shadows. She blinks again, the warmth of her breath brushing against my neck and face as she looks up at me. Her eyes are so fucking dark, so deep and full of despair and longing and something else I don’t recognize.
And I don’t know what the fuck is going on right now, but whatever this is, it’s freaking me the hell out. Suddenly all I can think about is backing her up against the side of the shop and kissing her.
And I can’t fucking do that, no matter how much my body might be telling me otherwise.
“I’ll—”
My thumb brushes against her hipbone, cutting off whatever she was about to say as I find myself stepping closer, closing the distance between us. “You can stay,” I whisper, having no clue where these words are coming from. “Stay.”
“No,”I spit back, tired and confused by all of this. One minute he’s telling me to leave and then next he’s asking me to stay. I have whiplash from all this bullshit, and I don’t need it. This situation is hard enough as it is, and I don’t need to add to it by dealing with Nate’s bipolar behavior.
I pull away from him and haul ass up the steps, slamming the door behind me as I find what little solace I have in my dad’s apartment. The only calm it brings me is that I’m alone. Nothing about this feels like home or even remotely comfortable.
I can hear the guys laughing from behind the closed door, undoubtedly finding humor in the way I just stormed into the house, slamming the door in his face. What they don’t know is that Nate has been so rude to me since the day I arrived, and I’m already overwhelmed with being here in the first place. How the hell am I supposed to stay here and be treated like this? I can’t leave before my dad’s memorial service. That would make things even worse.
I’m keenly aware of everything around me, the strangeness of the house, the sounds from outside, the people who know my father best; it all feels confining and heavy. I don’t fit in here, and I probably never will. The island might be gorgeous, but I’m from New York, all concrete and buildings. I’m a tourist in their eyes, and always will be even if my father’s an islander.
It’s late in New York, but I need someone to talk to, someone who might be able to keep me from breaking down and boarding a plane tonight.
“Mom,” I whine as soon as she answers, her voice tired and I know I woke her up.
We’ve been texting since I got here, but we haven’t talked. I think she hasn’t called because she knows I’m a mess. Hearing her voice causes me to instantly breakdown.
“Sage, you okay?” she asks, her question completely stupid and not what I need to hear. I sniffle down the line, the sob finally leaving my mouth. I’ve been holding back since I closed the door, not wanting Nate to see me cry. It would give him way too much satisfaction to know I’m miserable.
“No,” I wail, ready to unload on her. “I’m in a strange house. The people hate me. I want to come home, Mom.” I seriously sound like a spoiled child and not a twenty-two-year-old who is about to finish college and be out on her own.
“Sage,” she says, and I can hear that tinge of placation in her voice that she gets when she thinks I’m being ridiculous.
Maybe I am, but I don’t need her to say it. I used to think of myself as independent, like my mom. Thinking she raised me, I must be like her, but as I stand here in this house, I’m far from it. Hall and Oates’ “Rich Girl” is playing on a loop in my head.
That’s me.
Spoiled, rich girl having a tantrum.
“Mom, I don’t belong here. There’s this guy who works for Dad, and he’s a complete asshole. When I got here, the first thing he said to me was that Dad never told him about me. He asked why I was here.” It comes out in a rush, and I’m not even sure she can understand me through the tears.
“Sage,” she says again, and each time she says my name I want to scream. She’s not taking my side. She’s not even trying to make me feel better. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you need to stay.”
“Mom,” I wail again, pouting.
“Can you hear me out?” she says, her words firm, and I’m trying to remind myself that I did wake her up and am now whining and being a huge pain in the ass. But that’s part of her job as my mother, to talk me off the ledge.
“Fine,” I spit out sourly as I drop my phone on the couch, switching it over to speaker. I flop down, the scent of surf wax floating in the air.