Page 5 of Alliance

“Yes,” I whisper. I know what she means. I know that her family sucks for what they’re doing to her. I know, and yet I stand by. Because even though I think it’s terrible, and even though I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy—there’s nothing I can do.

She nods her head sadly, using her fingertips to push a stray piece of hair from her face. “Is he bad?” Her eyes are pleading with me, begging me to give her something. Some amount of hope.

But I can’t give her what she wants.

“Lana,” I whisper, “I can’t—”

“I know.” She waves a hand. “I’m sorry.” She looks defeated as her eyes lower to her lap. “I had to try though.” She shrugs, and I can’t blame her for that. If it were me, I’d probably be running.

“Hey.” Before I know what I’m doing, I reach across the space between us and set a hand on her knee in a reassuring gesture. There’s a million lines running through my head, thought after thought of things I could say to her. But none of them would bring her comfort, none of them would change her situation or bring her loved ones back from the dead. “I’m sorry.” I settle with sympathy.

She gives me a brief smile, a small glimpse at what another version of her would look like. A version that’s not crippled with grief and obligations.

I have to shake her from my mind, forget the image of that sad smile.

I can’t help her. Nobody can.

Chapter Three

THERE’S A POUNDING IN MYhead that matches the pounding on the front door.

I drank too much last night. After the funeral, I snuck a bottle of expensive whiskey from my father’s office and drank myself into oblivion in the privacy of my bedroom. A rare act of defiance from me.

Rule breaking was Lily’s department. I was the good daughter. The one who listened, wore pretty dresses, and only spoke when spoken to. Lily was wild, wore bright colors and weird prints. She had a habit of asking questions at the most inopportune times, leaving my parents angry with her more often than not.

My heart aches thinking about Lily. Missing her fills me to the brim, leaving my mind with no room for anything other than sadness. There’s too much pain in my head and my heart, and no matter how I try to fill my days, it lingers there, making me feel it all.

There’s a saying thrown at me anytime I voice my sadness, that time will heal it. But it’s been three years, and I still wake up thinking she’ll be in the room next to mine. I don’t believe any amount of time will heal me. Heal this.

My parents’ grief seemed to end quicker than mine. A week after Lily’s death, my mother was pulling all reminders of her from the house and packing them up in unmarked containers to be cast away to the basement. Pictures, momentos, anything that reeked of Lily was gone. We went from a four-person family to three in the blink of an eye.

Just as quickly, all mentions of her vanished with the photos. Her name became a sinful word in the house. No one mentioned her. As if eliminating her name from our vocabulary would somehow make her loss easier on us, more palatable.

I wish I would have spoken up, aired my grievances, but Lily had always been the one to stand up for us. Instead, I packed myself away in my room, not coming out for days on end. Decidedly, if Lily was dead, then I would hole myself up until I was too.

The person to bring me out of my self-induced coma was the next to die, my grandfather.

Only this time, I can’t fade away. For one, I knew this was coming, we all did. Five months ago, he called us all over to his estate to tell us he was dying. He hid his cancer from the family for six months before that, privately consulting doctors and weighing his odds before he finally sat us down and broke the news.

He didn’t want chemo. Didn’t want to die weak and sick. It was my cousin, Madi, who finally talked him into it, but one round, no results, and he was done.

And still, when the call came, it felt like a knife through my heart.

My mother finally answers the door. I hear her muffled greeting slither up the stairs, the sound piercing to my ears. “Lana!” she calls and without thinking, I audibly groan.

The ibuprofen has yet to kick in, and the constant pounding of my head refuses to dull. I showered and dressed an hour ago, but then I curled back up on my bed and stewed in my hangover.

“Lana!” she shouts again when I don’t immediately leap from my bed and head to the stairs. With another groan, I swing my legs off the mattress and move toward her calls. The cotton fabric of the charcoal-colored t-shirt dress clings to my back as I make my way downstairs. Despite my mother telling me to look nice, I piled my hair into a bun atop my head and only put on mascara, leaving the remainder of my face bare. This isn’t what she meant, nor will it reach her standards, but I’d argue that I’ve looked worse.

When I meet her downstairs, my father is standing next to her and behind them is a tall, lean man, wearing a tan coat with silver eyes focused on me.

I pause on the steps, taking in his smooth skin leading to his ash brown hair and lightly stubbled jaw. He brings a hand to meet his mouth, running over his full lips and jawline. What’s left in its wake is a sinister smirk.

“Darling,” my father says, his hand extending to hold mine as I descend the last few steps. “This is Congressman LaFontaine,” he says, gesturing with his head toward the previously unknown man in our foyer.

“Please,” the congressman interjects, extending his hand to take mine. “Call me Davis.”

Those pink lips curl again, rising back into a smirk. I’m sure other women would lose their panties seeing him in their house, knowing their parents are vying to marry them off. Considering the looks andagesof other eligible bachelors in Louisiana that would give my parents the clout they’re looking for, Congressman LaFontaine is a good option.

---