Page 8 of A Thirst for Franc

“I don’t need a man to make me happy,” CeeCee said with as much sass as I’d come to expect.

“No, you don’t,” Mom said. “But having someone to share your happiness with is the greatest feeling in the world.”

“No, the greatest feeling in the world is waking up to a snow day.”

“Amen,” I said. And CeeCee and I both raised our hands and pretended to high-five as if I was there in person. My heart wrenched slightly. I missed my family. After college, I moved to an apartment close by, and hadn’t missed much of anything. Now I was hours away, and every now and again, the thought that I couldn’t get in my car and be in their driveway in twenty minutes dug a little deeper.

“You two are hopeless,” Mom said.

“I’d rather be hopeless and independent.” CeeCee smiled at the screen, then waved. “Love you, Quinny.”

“Love you, too.”

“Hey, where are you going?” Mom demanded.

“I’m going to the mall with Jessica. I’ll be home by nine.”

“Eight.”

“Eight? What am I, five?”

“My curfew was ten,” I offered and sat back, waiting for the fireworks.

“What?” CeeCee exclaimed. “That is so not fair!”

“Times were different then,” Mom quickly countered. “You can’t watch the news now without hearing about a shooting or an attempted abduction. Nine o’clock, and not a minute later.”

CeeCee sighed, even though that was the time she wanted. “You were lucky you got the nonneurotic mother.” With that, CeeCee waved and headed off.

Mom stared after her, then turned to me. “Am I neurotic?”

“She’s just being a teenager, Mom. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

“You weren’t like that.”

“We lived very different lives.” CeeCee had everything she could ever want. She didn’t know what it was like to eat ramen every day for a month because it was all Mom could afford. She didn’t know what it was like to run out of oil in the middle of the winter and have to open the oven door to warm the house. I absolutely adored my sister, but she was spoiled.

“Do you ever resent me for that?” Mom asked.

My eyebrow arched, surprised by the question. “Of course not. I consider myself lucky.”

“Really?”

I nodded. “Whether you realized it at the time or not, you taught me life skills. Those are things I would never find in a book.”

A slight smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I miss you, Quinny.”

“I miss you, too, Mom.”

“I hate that you felt like you had to leave. People have already stopped talking about it.”

“Mom…” I stopped her before she could say another word. “I don’t want to talk about it. I left for a reason. That part of my life is in the past, and I want to keep it there.”

She held up her hands. “Okay, I’m sorry. I just think that—”

“Mom.”

She let out a loud breath. “I’m done. I’m done.” She shook her head, but I could tell she was trying to hide the sadness that crept into her eyes.

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