Page 70 of The Masks We Wear

“Clumsy me.” She motions to the mess, but I don’t look away from her. Her dark amber eyes scan my face, searching for something before I grant her a soft smile, not wanting to lie. I wrap my arms around her neck, pulling her closer.

It hasn’t been easy watching my mother become lost to alcohol, but to be honest, I never really knew her in the first place. She was always locked away in her room, treating me like I was an annoying house guest. But my aunt Mina? She knew her before her first sip. When they were kids who probably loved each other more than anything in the world. So the pain currently coursing in my veins, squeezing my heart in the process, isn’t for me. But for her.

Mina’s silent cries reverberate through her body, sprouting goose bumps along my arm and a shiver down my spine.

We’re both hurt, just in different ways.

The daughter who wasn’t good enough to love, and the big sister who couldn’t save her.

“HOW MANY GIFTSdid you get, Amora?” A genuine laugh erupts from my mouth as I take in the pile of presents and assortment of flowers she’s attempting to balance.

Valentine’s Day came fast, and while the flowers and parading of love used to just annoy me, now it twists the muscles in my chest until breathing’s a chore. Amora suggested a break by heading out for lunch.

“Come on, Lily. A little help.”

I roll my eyes but grant her an olive branch by opening the back door to my car and taking the top bags from her pile. It’s not a secret Amora’s had her fair share of guys, but the truth is, she hasn’t slept with any of them. Well, maybe sleep is the wrong word. She definitely enjoys the pleasure of their tongue between her thighs, but her slight obsession with Blaze has left her waiting on him to dick her down.

I’ve told her more times than I can count that she and Blaze are too polar, but she has this notion that opposites attract. Opposites, sure, but not in the way she and Blaze are different. Amora needs someone who will take the shit she throws, add a little spice, and toss it right back. Someone with a tongue sharper than her and the patience to reel her in.

All of which, Blaze is not.

After loading up way too much shit, we head up the street for lunch. The drive-through lady takes our order and has us park while we wait. Amora adjusts in her seat, facing me.

“So, how’s Mina? Does she need a touch-up yet?”

Amora dyed my aunt’s strands a shade of honey and platinum that make her look like she walked out of a magazine. It damn near looks like a professional job.

I sigh, leaning back and stretching my hands above my head. “No, but we do have our first family therapy session coming up.’

“Seriously?”

“Yep.” I’m extremely excited about it too. My heart flutters when I think of going and finally healing the way I need to.

My aunt and I are fine, better than that, actually. But just because that piece of my garden is pretty doesn’t mean the weed growing in the corner can’t overtake it someday. We’ve decided to tear it up by the root, and for that, we need a little help.

“That’s really good to hear, Lil. How often?”

“Once a week at first and go from there.”

Being able to tell Amora about therapy openly does something to me. It chips away at the barrier I’ve held in place for so long, not allowing others to truly see me.

Amora smiles, grabbing my hand as the worker appears at the driver’s side window with our food. “I’m proud of you. I still want to call the police on that crazy bitch of a mom you got, but this is good.”

The corners of my mouth curl. “Enough about me.” I poke my thumb in the direction of all the presents. “Who got you what?”

And just like that, I learn about the fourteen guys that think they stand a chance with the Duchess of Emerald Falls.

THE THERAPIST’Soffice resides in the middle of downtown, at the top of a fifteen-story building. Walking inside, it feels more like a business meeting than a place to let loose and delve into all my secrets. Not to mention the high windows give me pause. I wonder how many people have looked out of them longingly.

When I used to dream of running my own practice, I was going to buy a home on some land. Make it comfortable and inviting, have a playroom for kids and a couple of therapy animals.

This place is sterile, like a hospital, and every piece of furniture is hard plastic. We’ve been sitting in the waiting area for fifteen minutes, and the entire time I’ve become entranced with watching the aging secretary twirl a set of pearls between a fresh manicure. She told us the doctor would like to see us separately at first and finish up with a joint meeting at the end.

Finally, the door creaks open, and a tall woman steps out. Her inky hair is brushed into a taut bun, and she dons an equally dark-fitted linen dress. Small black spectacles sit on the bridge of her skinny nose, held in place by a silver chain wrapped around her neck. When her neutral tinted lips stretch into a smile, it transforms her relatively sad face into a ball of warmth.

“Miss Conley. I’m ready when you are.”

My aunt squeezes my hand, leaving a whisper of a kiss on my temple as I stand. I follow in behind the doctor into another sterile room. It lacks personality, with only a few diplomas, abstract art, and a couple of dying ferns scattered around. One wall is floor-to-ceiling windows, letting too much light for comfort.

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