Page 29 of Rejected Exile

I groan. There's an entire world outside my bed that I was hoping to avoid for... oh, well, a day or two. But obviously that won't be happening.

I try to call out,"I'm coming!"But my voice won't seem to work. My throat is dry and raspy, and my mouth tastes like something died in it, was resurrected, then shit a little. I'll have to get up, shuffle down the hallway, and confront the deadly doorbell ringer face-to-face.

Sighing, I screw my eyes shut, throw the sheets off my body, and manage to get my legs off the edge of the bed before I run out of momentum. It takes me several seconds to peel my eyes open. The doorbell rings a few more times, and then someone starts knocking. I force myself up to my feet and try to take stock of everything: my body, my pounding head, and of course, the doorbell ringing.

Somehow I managed to get to my bedroom last night. That's a miracle, given that I don't remember doing it.

I'm still wearing last night's clothes—for the most part. My blue jeans have been kicked to the bottom of the bed, and my bra is half-off and twisted up under my T-shirt. Sighing, I stumble to my suitcase, grab the first outfit-shaped clothing I find, and throw it on. Then I spare one more second to look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror—ding-dong-ding-dong—before I give up and stumble downstairs anyway.

My maroon hair is a mess. There are bags beneath my eyes. Every vein in my eyeballs is red and throbbing. And I'm willing to bet my breath could wilt plants right about now. I spare a moment to hope that the person on the other side of the door isn't tall, dark, and handsome—a description that fitsfartoo many men I know in Jupiter—before I throw the door open and confront them.

It takes me a moment to recognize who it is.

At first, I think I must be dreaming.

Then I squeal and throw myself forward, wrapping my arms around a diminutive frame. Cat comes up to my shoulders on a good day in heels, but her hug is strong and tight, her fierceness nothing to laugh at. She smells like lavender and shea butter, and the sound of her pleased laugh is like coming home.

"I thought for a second there you were dead," she says in her deep burr of a voice, quite the contrast to her petite frame. "Tell me you drank water like I told you before you went to bed."

I blink at her. "Huh?"

"On the phone last night?" Her brows rise so high they're hidden behind her blunt blonde bangs. "C'mon, kiddo, I didn't drag myself out of bed at two AM just to give you advice you didn't listen to. I swear I taught you better than to drink that much without drinking a little water."

I squint at her, bothered by the sun peering out behind her shoulder. "How'd you get here so fast? It's a sixteen-hour drive."

"Planes exist." She shoves past me into the house, taking a good look around. "You need to dust more. There are cobwebs there, there, and there."

"I didn't notice."

As Cat moves around the front of the house, murmuring to herself and pointing out things I missed, I take stock of her. She's bright and cheery as always, though there's a frown line on her face and a wrinkle across her forehead. Most people would wear a comfortable outfit on a plane, but not Cat—her black patent pumps are all business, as is the suit and skirt combo with a silk blouse she's wearing, though she's chosen emerald green and daisy yellow as today's colors, the opposite of stuffy.

I follow her into the dining room, my headache subsiding to the soothing sound of her familiar voice as she points out warping in the hardwood floors and lists a number of tasks for me. She stops in the middle of the room and rounds on me, taking me in for a long moment.

Finally she asks, "Did you bring my suitcase in?"

"Your—what?"

"It's out by the curb. I'd lug it in myself, but you look like you need the physical activity." Her frown deepens, and she reaches out to tug on the bottom of my T-shirt, smoothing it. "I know you're tired, Lilah, but you know the one cure for a hangover: pretending like you don't have one."

I laugh at her, and it makes my head pound harder. "That'syourcure for a hangover, Mom. Most people sleep in."

"Nonsense. Some hard work is the best thing for you right now. That, and a big breakfast with a glass of water. I'll work on the food—you bring my stuff in."

I know better than to make her ask me a third time. Cat is an endlessly kind and caring woman, but she's always been no-nonsense. Her attitude was the best thing for me when I was a teenager. Every time I got down about being rejected and exiled, she took one look at me and gave me a list of chores that would make a grown man sweat and moan. I'd complain the whole time, but by the point I was done mowing the lawn, cleaning out the gutters, scooping our elderly neighbor's cat boxes and vacuuming the carpet, I would have forgotten what bothers me. As Cat liked to remind me, it's hard to be down in the dumps when you're hard at work—because moping is a luxury for idle hands and empty minds.

So I do what she says, heading out to the curb to grab her suitcases—though I fetch my sunglasses and slide them over my reddened eyes first. I can't tell how much of my current pain is the hangover and how much is all the crying I did, but I know my tears didn't help things. The puffiness in my cheeks and dry rasp of each blink is a reminder that I moped too much last night.

Grabbing the suitcase also gives me time to think. Cat is here. I must have called her while I was drunk last night. I have no idea what I said, but whatever it was—I said enough to convince her to come here.

Maybe I made her feel sorry for me. But that doesn't sound like Cat. It's something else I fear as I reach out to grab the suitcase handle and lug it up the front porch steps one at a time.

I'm afraid I told her the thing I realized last night, as I was digging into a pizza and considering how many cocktails would get me nice and drunk without sending me to the hospital.

When I got the call from Niall, I only wanted to return to Juniper for a day or two. I didn't want to stick around because it would be too painful of a reminder: that I was rejected, that my father exiled me, and that this place would never be home.

All that changed when I found out what I really was.

I've never craved anything the way I crave home. Discovering that I might actually have one—that a tiny piece of silicone separates me from belonging—was as freeing as it was horrifying. But I don't know how to tell the woman who saved me and raised me that I'm actually not her daughter at all.

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