Page 102 of Wallflower
I frown at the page, then at Charlie. “The Fury bought our wine?”
Is that… Did Charlie smile? I’ve been too caught up in my own shit that for the first time since I arrived, I notice something different about Charlie. She seems… Is shehappy?
I look around at her workspace. It’s carefully constructed chaos. A giant desk that belonged to our dad, the timber top scarred with forty years of paperweights, whiskey glasses, and wine bottles. Charlie’s chair is new—ergonomic, practical, hideous—while Dad’s old armchair sits in the corner with one of Mom’s blankets slung over the back. The canvas on the wall above it is something Mom painted for Dad’s birthday the year she took an art class—an abstract of riotous color she calledWithout Rain.
Glass vases of wildflowers. A dirty plate that was probably Charlie’s lunch, and another underneath that was likely from breakfast. A coffee machine in the corner. The impression that Charlie rarely leaves this room.
And my sister, mouth twitching like she’s got a secret of her own.
I toss the contract on a stack of paperwork. “Explain, Charlie.”
“About a month ago, Violet gave me a lead on an opportunity with the Fury to supply wine for the home arena VIP suites.”
My heart stops. “Violet?”
Charlie’s blue eyes shine. “Yep. She got me a meeting with a guy on the administrative team, and I pitched. Put together an entire business plan. Public relations. Marketing. Contingencies. The works.”
“Violetdid this?” I don’t know why I’m surprised—it’s just like Violet to go out of her way to support the people who are important to me—but just when I thought it was impossible to love her even more, she gives me a reason to fall all over again.
“No. I mean, Violet gave me a business card, butIdid this.” Charlie stops fighting her grin, and her pretty smile transforms her face. “I got Silver Leaf on the books for a contract worth a lot more than three million, and it feels so damn good.”
“I, um…” A mixed sense of pride and redundancy settles over me, and I pull on the back of my neck. “I’m proud of you, Charlie. That’s… That’s fucking impressive.”
“Thank you. I’m proud of me too.” Her smile falters and she drops her eyes, then raises them again with a chagrined smile. “And thank you for Five Fools Holdings. For supporting our family even when I pushed you away. If it wasn’t for you, who knows where Silver Leaf would be right now? You did a good thing. Not a selfish thing. Not a wrong thing. Was it stubborn? Yes. Sneaky? For sure. But am I mad? Not entirely. Part of me might even be grateful that you did it.”
I release a heavy breath, and my shoulders sag. I’ve wanted this for so long without realizing just how badly I needed it. “For real?”
“I am. Thank you, big brother.”
My throat grows tight. “You’re welcome.”
We awkwardly avoid eye contact for a moment, and I study the row of photo frames on her desk to give me something else to look at. The first has a picture of Isobel beaming with the evidence of her first lost tooth. I turn the silver frame a little to get a better look at it.
“She’s adorable,” I say.
“She is,” Charlie agrees.
I pick up the frame behind it, this one holding a picture of Mom and Dad when they were in their early thirties. Mom is pregnant with me, and they look so damn happy underneath the silver leaves of the old olive trees, the sunlight scattered through Mom’s blonde hair in a halo that makes my eyes burn.
“I’ve got this same photograph in my wallet,” I say.
“It’s a good one.” Charlie takes the frame when I offer it to her and studies Mom and Dad with a soft, sad kind of smile. “Maybe the best we’ve got.”
There’s another picture of Izzy, this time with Dylan. One of Finn in his military uniform. The next is Daisy on a horse with her head thrown back mid-laugh. I pick up a frame holding an old photograph of our family. The seven of us are in the living room of the main house, lined up in front of the blinking Christmas tree, the debris of our gifts lying thrown at our feet. Daisy looks about Izzy’s age, which would make me thirteen, all puffed up and proud with a new hockey stick in one hand, my other arm thrown around Charlie next to me. She’d be eleven here, tiny compared to my fast-growing frame, her skinny arm tight around my waist and her pink-cheeked face beaming up at me.
“You used to like me,” I comment, returning the frame to its position on the desk.
Charlie snorts, setting down the picture of Mom and Dad, but there’s an odd curve on her mouth. “I was young.”
“Yeah. It was a long time ago.”
Charlie sighs and hands me the last frame in the line. It’s a picture of me. I’m about twenty-two in my Tampa Bay Titans gear, sweaty and laughing after a game we must have won.
I raise my eyebrows at Charlie, and she rolls her eyes. “I still like you. Are you happy now?”
I huff out a laugh that I don’t feel. “Not really.”
Charlie sighs. “Violet.”
