Page 54 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

“Hey.” She pauses. “I saw Arnelle.”

Fuck.

My grip tightens around the phone. I turn, staring out the window, watching as my team moves to the rhythm I set. It’s grounding.

“Where?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral.

“We had dinner.” Kamryn hesitates. “I thought you’d wanna know.”

“So this wasn’t a run-in? You planned it?”

She sighs. “It wasn’t a plot or anything. I wanted to see her.”

I rub my jaw, exhaling slowly. Time hasn’t done anything to lighten the weight her name still carries with me. It’s heavy. Burdensome. It drags me back to a place I hate to visit.

The hospital, with its sterile walls. The smell of antiseptic thick in my nose. Arnelle on the bed curling into herself, sobbing quietly, almost apologetically. Even though I was next to her, holding her, I felt like I was fifty miles away.

I couldn’t prevent it. I couldn’t fix it. There was nothing I could do to take her pain away, and I couldn’t give her back what we lost. I couldn’t even give her a reason to stay.

And I don’t blame her for that.

I clear my throat. “How’s she doing?”

“Well, she looks amazing,” Kam says lightly. “She’s doing good. Just signed a contract for her first book.”

I nod. “Good for her. She always talked about that.”

Arnelle’s an interior decorator. She specializes in making things beautiful and cozy. That huge social media following she amassed must have finally paid off for her. I’ve never been much for it, but she made it work for her. I feel a twinge of pride.

Then I wait. There’s something else coming, I know. My sister is smart, but never slick.

“So…I have something else to say, and I don’t want you to trip.”

A beat of silence. “What is it?”

“I don’t like Raya.”

I close me eyes. “Here we go.”

“Something’s off with her.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You say that about everybody.”

“No, but I mean it this time. I think she lied about Spelman, or at least when she graduated.”

My jaw clenches.

I already know she’s lying about something.

I’ve been planning to bring it up since the cookout, I just haven’t had the chance. But the last thing I’m gonna do is tell my sister that. She thinks she’s planting seeds of doubt, but the roots are already buried deep.

“What makes you think that?” I ask anyway.

“She was weird when Mama brought it up,” she says. “I’m telling you, something’s off. I feel it in my gut.”

So do I.

But saying it out loud means admitting I’ve been lowkey ignoring it in exchange for the thrill of what very well might end up being crazy pussy.

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