Page 17 of Moth
“Kors…a purse?” Suspicion laces his every word. “Since when are you interested in fashion?”
I glance down at my vintage sweater, cargo pants, and sandals—all found at a thrift shop for less than ten dollars total. “Since…now?”
“How much do you need?”
It seems way too easy, and my stomach churns when I spout off a random figure. “Ten thousand.”
“Done,” he says before I can even start to feel guilty, and somehow, his trust makes it so much worse. “I’ll make some calls, and it will be in your account within the hour.”
“Thank you.”
“And…how are things?” he adds. “With you and Bran?”
“Fine.”
“And school?”
“We’re on summer break,” I say, though I feel we had this same conversation the last time I spoke to him. And the time before that. His reply even sounds the same.
“Oh, that’s nice, honey.”
“I plan to submit for an internship in the fall,” I add, mainly to hear myself talk. Acknowledge my achievements out loud. “I could shadow an editor for a while. Learn what it takes to be published—”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Daddy questions. For once, he’s actually listened, but his reaction also isn’t that much of a shock. “What does Branden think about it? He’s been good, lately, Hannah. Moving out there has been good for him—” He pauses as if waiting for me to argue, but I don’t. I never do. “I know you have your hobbies, Hannah. I know they’re important to you, but try not to dig up the past too much. It hurts us, you know. Me…your mother…Branden. I know you’re proud of your story, but we are still fielding questions from nosy neighbors who are reading into it more than they should.”
“It was one article,” I say softly, but the guilt cuts deep. Even a vague short story invites judgment. Annoyance. I mourn the loss of my journal now more than ever—the one place I could store my thoughts without being judged.
“Darling…” He sighs. “Think of your brother. You know what it’s been like for him—all the rumors. You’ve always been his champion, honey, and he’s always been yours. People will take any little thing they can twist to fit their narrative.”
“I’m sorry,” I say for what has to be the tenth time since the article was first published.
“I know. Anyway, you can count on the money being in your account by tonight.”
I don’t question how he can possibly arrange the transfer on such short notice. My father and money are enigmas to me—but, for once, his cavalier attitude toward it plays in my favor.
“Thank you, Daddy.”
“Anything for my princess. That’s what family is for,” he insists. “Wehelpeach other, no matter the cost.”
And I know what he means.
Either monetarily, or with our very souls, we pay the price of being family.
