Page 5 of Morally Black Betrothal
His thinning hair waved in the breeze from the overhead vent, and another bit of spittle dribbled down his cheek.
I wiped away and squeezed his hand. “Yeah, I’d rather get more sleep tonight, too.”
I was about to continue my lecture on the merits of ancient grains versus refined flours when my phone buzzed with an incoming text. I pulled it out of my pocket.
Selena
Hey, are you busy?
I frowned. I hadn’t heard from my twin in months, since the last time she blew through Boston, but not without leaving me with a bill of several thousand dollars for her car repairs and a stain on my couch that still hadn’t come out. Sel had a tendency to move through life like a small tornado, rambling around the world like she wasn’t half responsible for the situation our family was in.
Selena did as Selena wanted. Always had, always would.
But while those therapists I mentioned said my relationship with her was more than a little codependent, she was still my sister. Plus, she had an adorable four-year-old daughter who deserved to havesomeonecare about her. I had a responsibility to make sure they were both okay.
I typed out a quick reply.
I’m at work. Is it an emergency?
“If she’d ever answer my calls, she’d know this.” I informed Mr. Black, whose eyelid twitched in response.
My phone lit up with her face—our shared face—including the blue eyes and caramel-colored hair inherited from our mother, the straight nose with a slight button end from our dad, and the too-full lips and dimpled chin that was all our own.
I glanced at Mr. Black. He could wake up at any time. Some patients his age struggled when they came out of surgery, to thepoint where they didn’t know where or even who they were. They needed help.
But while Selena might have been calling to brag about a new boyfriend, there was an equal likelihood she—and therefore, Kylie—legitimately needed help.
Nope, I couldn’t risk it.
“I’ll be right back,” I told Mr. Black, then slipped out of the room to answer the call.
The pretty contact picture of Selena was replaced with her snarling real-time face, complete with overdrawn eyeliner, a reddened nose that told me she’d been drinking, and deep circles under her eyes.
“Sel,” I greeted her in the low tones appropriate for ICU. “I can’t really talk?—”
“Oh my God,finally! I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”
“Shh. I’m at work.” I frowned, keeping my eyes glued to Mr. Black’s room. “And you have not. I’ve been trying to reach you, and you never call me back.”
Two weeks ago, our father had mentioned the most recent (and dire) notice from the bank, letting him know that he had been rejected for another loan against the farm. Dad had struggled to maintain the dairy since our mother had passed, but the last few years had been particularly bad. From what I could glean, he was on the brink of losing everything, but Selena was so absorbed with her own stuff, she hadn’t even asked about him. Or me, for that matter.
“Ihave. You just never answer your phone.”
I bit back a retort. Selena was better at gaslighting than anyone, so there was no point in arguing with her. She wouldn’t hear a thing.
“Anyway, I got into town yesterday, and you’re the only one I know here anymore. Please? I’m with Kylie. Can you just meet us at?—”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I interrupted. “You’re back in Boston? Why? What happened to your job in Providence? Are you guys safe?”
“Oh my God, Twenty Questions, just meet me! I’ll tell you everything when I see you, I promise.”
I glanced at Mr. Black’s room again. “I’m at the hospital right now, Sel. I can’t just leave.”
“Why not? I thought you were a volunteer.”
“I am, but?—”
“So then leave, who cares? What are they going to do? Refuse to take free labor from you in the future?”
