Page 121 of The Good Girl Effect
When I arrive back at the apartment, my nose is so cold it burns, and my fingers are frozen as they clutch the bag of groceries to my chest.
After getting inside, I set the things on the counter and blow into my hands trying to warm them.
“You need a pair of gloves.”
I nearly scream as a woman’s voice cuts in from out of nowhere. Elizabeth steps into the kitchen while my heart is still beating wildly from the terror.
I clutch my chest in fright. “Mon Dieu!”
“Pardon,” she replies in a half-hearted apology. “I still have a key from when I lived here.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
Elizabeth has such a stern expression that I remember how Jack once called her the meanest person he’s ever met, and I assumed he meant that because she is his sister. Don’t most siblings consider the other mean?
But in this case, I believe him. Elizabeth has claws, and she frightens me.
Crossing her arms over her chest, she wears a stoic look as she faces me. “What happened with you and my brother?”
I let out a sigh. “Nothing.”
“Tu me prends pour une idiote?” she asks.
“No, I do not think you are an idiot,” I reply in a huff, “and stop speaking French. It’s throwing me off.” Which is true. Her French is disarming, and I know she’s doing it to prove her intelligence. And maybe even her dominance.
“Then stop lying,” she replies flatly.
“Fine,” I reply, placing my hands on my hips. “Your brother taught me rope bondage upstairs at night, and that’s all.”
“That’s all?” One single brow rises on her face.
“It’s none of your business,” I argue.
“It’s my business that Jack barely shows up to work anymore. He went from being finally happy again to being miserable and elusive again.”
“Why do you even care?” I reply angrily. “I thought you hated him.”
She reacts like I’ve slapped her. Her jaw drops as she glares at me. “You thought I hated my own brother?”
“You don’t talk to him. How could you even tell if he’s happy or not?” I snap in return.
“Do you even understand why I was so mad at Jack?”
I relax on an exhale, and although I know I don’t need to be getting deeper into Jack’s personal life, I am curious to hear this story.
When I don’t reply, she walks into the kitchen and retrieves two wineglasses from the cabinet and a bottle of cabernet from the rack.
“It’s ten in the morning,” I say, but she ignores me as she pours.
“Sit,” she commands.
I try to resist, but after a moment, I give in and take the stool next to her. Taking a sip, I listen as she tells the story.
“I told you how I was living with Jack and Emmaline when she passed away. She was like a sister to me. I held her hand as she passed.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. We both take a drink in the moment of silence.
“I was only twenty years old. In a foreign country, far from my parents and any family outside my brother. And when Em passed away, I needed him. The day she died, he disappeared. For a week, no one could find him. I was alone with Beatrice, who was only three at the time. I was grieving and alone, but he took all that grief for himself and gave me no room for my own.”
