Page 6 of For The Weekend
“You think you move back and everything is gonna be fine now?”
“Who is her mother?”
I close my eyes, squeezing them tight as their questions fly so fast I can’t keep them all straight. The pinch of my fingernails into my palm centers my awareness enough that I can form some words, stilted as they may be. “I wanted to come home to give Mazie a family.” Forcing my eyes open, I look to each of my siblings, swallowing around the rock in my throat. “Ineeded my family.”
They don’t respond. Ian, of course, holds nothing butunderstanding in his features. I wish he wouldn’t be so accepting of me. I spent the last twenty years basically doing nothing but being a thorn in his side. Actually, worse than that. I only realized after I had Mazie what he’s probably been feeling. Anxiety, fear, stress, pain, panic, dread. My whole life, I looked up to Ian as if he were my father, and I only ever gave him reason to worry.
Then there’s Taryn, eternally suspicious. With good reason. She’s had a rough go of it, being the only girl with three brothers. Considering all the things I feel completely out of my depth about with Mazie, I assume it was really difficult for her when our mom passed. I’d taken it pretty hard, but I was so young, I believed I had it the hardest. I thought I was grieving the most. When, really, they all lost her too, and more than my brothers and me, Taryn lost something with Mom that she couldn’t replace.
As I figured he would, Griffin appears as if he’d like to leave. I have a lot of work to do, repairing what I broke with my brothers and sister, but I know it’ll be more difficult with him. We never saw eye to eye. Although if I really reflect on it, I never really saw eye to eye with any of them because I’m the youngest one. I’m the baby and the fuckup. The bastard who couldn’t be bothered to do the most basic of things like return a text. I’m not sure when exactly it happened—if it was my third return to rehab or when I promised to show up to help when his twins were born and his wife died, then I never followed through—but Griffin stopped trusting me. I don’t blame him. I’ve been a shitty brother.
But I want to make it up to them. Or at least try.
“I’m sorry,” I start, which is inadequate, but it’s all I’ve got right now.
Griffin crosses his arms and remains silent, though he does jut his chin out, a small acknowledgment.
It’s Taryn who gets to the heart of the matter. “Why did you hide your daughter from us?”
“I wasn’t hiding her. I was…overwhelmed.” I’ve done a lot of therapy to tackle all of my demons, but the most difficult to overcome has always been the constant feeling of inadequacy.
No one in my life—not my mother or my siblings—ever made me feel that way, but I’ve never been able to shake the belief that deep down I am simply not good enough.
After all, I am the straw that broke the camel’s back. Our father left after I was born. When Mom died, I was the only one never to have visited her in the hospital. And Amy, Mazie’s mother, chose drugs instead of the life I tried to give her.
Standing here, with all of my deficiencies on display, I have trouble forcing the words off my tongue. I rub the heels of my hands against my eyes. “I spent most of my life doing shitty things, and I didn’t care about who I hurt, but now…” I let my arms flop down to my sides. They weigh one thousand pounds. “I need you.”
Then I let go of all the weight I’ve been carrying for so long and tell them everything.
Chapter 3
Eloise
Mom
Make sure you RSVP with the name of your plus-one!
Iignore the latest text from my mother and toss my phone down, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
“I look terrible.” I frown at the hideous bridesmaid dress Lily picked out for me. It’s like she intentionally chose the most unflattering color and style for me. I sigh and circle to Clara, who’s studying me with a shrewd gaze, and Sloane, who’s sitting on my bed, folding the mountain of clean laundry I’ve been ignoring for the past three days.
“Yep,” Clara declares, and I laugh, not at all offended. She has a degree in fashion design and owns a lingerie boutique with her wife, and I asked her to come over to help. “It’s not your color.”
Cognac, that’s what Lily called it. But the reddish-brown-gray color isn’t working.
Sloane lifts her gaze and shrugs. “You should tell Lily you don’t like it. That it makes you uncomfortable.”
I pluck at the single shoulder strap of the satin dress, hating how it cuts across my opposite armpit. “You know I can’t do that.”
With Sloane’s gaze back on my clothes, she mumbles, “God forbid you rock the boat.”
“Oh, like you can talk,” I snap, even though there’s no real heat behind my words.
Sloane and I might not look anything alike—her with dark hair, dark wardrobe, and full sleeves of tattoos, and me with blond hair and a style that she lovingly refers to as unicorn puke—but wegeteach other. We understand each other in ways our respective families never have. Black sheep united.
I glance around my disaster of a bedroom, my closet overflowing and shoes all over the place. “You’re a saint for even attempting to clean this.”
Sloane’s tidy and put together, but she’s never minded my ADHD brain and whirlwind of chaos. She’s never judged me.
