Chapter 22 | Cecilia

Chapter 22

Cecilia

“ T ell me more about this guy.” I curl my feet up under me and balance my wineglass on the arm of Liz’s couch.

She did a superb job furnishing her apartment quickly and on budget. I’m impressed by my little sister’s know-how. It’s almost like she’s been paying attention all these years. The small space looks put together and cozy. The armchair in the corner makes you want to lounge with a book, and I can imagine cuddling with Evie on the couch. The galley kitchen is the standard, but Liz added pops of color to it with dish towels and utensil holders and a few of those clever signs—“Many people have eaten in this kitchen, few have died.” It’s not my style, but it screams Liz to me in a way that her house with Julian never did. Regret scratches at me. The apartment is Liz without Julian.

Liz glares at me from the overstuffed armchair. She’s been in a fabulous mood since she showed up for dinner, but now the stress is showing. It’s etched in her face and in the set of her shoulders. And even though she hasn’t said it, or even really shown it, she’s hurting. A lot. Julian is the love of her life. Until now, that’s always been enough.

I sip my wine, swallowing down my worry with it. “Tell me about this guy.”

“It wasn’t anything, Cee.” She fiddles with her wedding ring. “Besides embarrassing.”

Liz’s cheeks are pink, her eyes downcast. Embarrassing or not, my sister felt something. That’s probably the problem itself. Happily married people don’t feel things for random bookstore dads.

“You are allowed to think another guy is good-looking, Liz.”

“I know that.”

I’m not sure she does. I’m not sure of anything, honestly, because she’s been tight-lipped about it all. But if Liz is planning on making this “break” permanent... I can’t stop my brain from starting an endless loop of Ross and Rachel. Will that be Liz and Julian in a few months? Fighting over what happened during their time apart and if their marriage vows had still applied? I’m not even sure if I want them to get back together. What I want is for my sister to be happy and cherished and loved. And she is those things with Julian most of the time. But, if I’m honest, I’m getting tired of looking past the rest of the time.

“Are you going to take your ring off?” Probably not the best icebreaker, but if Liz turns her ring any more, she is going to burn through her finger.

“I don’t know,” she says, finally looking up at me. “I mean, I’m still married.”

“Technicality.”

“You’re right. And I know Julian was off doing god knows what with god knows who all the other times we broke up, but we were kids, Cee. We’re not kids anymore. This is my marriage .”

“He’s the one who forgot that.” I lean forward and take her hand in mine. “Wear the ring or don’t. Sleep with Hot Bookstore Dad or don’t.”

“I don’t even know his last name!”

“My point is,” I continue as if she hadn’t protested, “you don’t owe Julian anything right now. This next six months is about you and what you want.”

She flops back in the armchair and worries at her bottom lip. “What if that’s not Julian?”

I shrug, though I feel anything but nonchalant about that response. “Then it’s not Julian.”

Liz pulls the ring off her finger and places it on the table in front of her. I’m nauseous with anxiety at her action and have equally never been prouder. I resist the urge to pick up the ring and instead find myself awestruck by the gleaming white line on her ring finger. The evidence of her marriage will be there for quite some time. As if Liz notices it, too, she tucks her hand under her leg.

When she looks back at me, her eyes are dry and steady. Maybe after leaving and signing a lease and changing her address, taking the ring off is a formality. But no, her lip quivers, and her free hand clutches her wineglass like it’s holding her together.

“I can see how Evie managed to stick around so long,” she says, effectively changing the topic.

I’m about to protest, but her expression as she stares at her ring stops the words in my throat. “It’s only been a year.”

“Seemed pretty serious tonight.” She grins. “I mean, you gave her a key.”

I narrow my eyes. “Were you eavesdropping?”

She laughs. “Of course.”

“You know I don’t do serious,” I say in an attempt to wave away the heart emojis that have replaced my sister’s eyes. “But I do care for her.”

She rolls her eyes. “I think that’s the wrong four-letter word.”

Love. The word always makes me think of Liz and Julian. In a way, their imperfect and resilient relationship became my definition. They are one of the few couples I’ve gotten to watch grow over the years, from teenagers to post-grads to married adults. All the while, I flitted from one partner to the next, never finding a person who made me want to use the L word or let my guard down. Until Evie.

“I have told Evie that I love her.”

I remember that night. I think about it often. What made me tell her when I withheld from so many before. It was shortly after I rejected her request to move in together. I thought I was days away from getting dumped. Hours, if I was being honest. Evie was in a foul mood, unusual for her. Midway through our argument, she stopped and asked me point blank if I loved her. Because even though it was eight months into our relationship, I had yet to tell her, despite the fact that she’d told me months ago. Her vulnerability in that moment caught me off guard. "Yes,” I told her. “I love you more than I ever thought I could. More than I have loved anyone in a very long time . ” And that was that. Evie sat down, picked up her wineglass, and returned to our regularly scheduled program. Because she knew how much she’d won in that moment.

“She also understands that I don’t need to flaunt that particular emotion constantly,” I say to my sister’s incredulous expression. “But these last three months, when she pushes I don’t necessarily want to pull away.”

“Good,” Liz says with a giant, cheesy smile. “You deserve happiness.”

I scoff at the notion. “Love does not define my happiness.”

“Semantics.” She rolls her eyes. “You deserve to love and be loved, Cee. I’m not sure why you think otherwise.”

“I don’t think that.”

It’s technically the truth. It has nothing to do with deserving love or not. My father wrecked my mother after decades together. I saw the fallout, and I’m not willing to risk that level of heartbreak. I honestly don’t know if I can survive it. But this isn’t something Liz has ever understood.

“What happened with Mom and Dad,” Liz says as if she can read my thoughts, “shouldn’t define your future. Hiding from love will not keep you from getting hurt.”

Okay, maybe she understands more than I think. But Liz is the hopeless romantic, and I am who I am—not hopeless or romantic.

Liz’s cell phone springs to life. She glances at the screen, surprise coloring her expression. When I see Zoey’s name on the screen, I understand why. It’s Saturday night, and Zoey is a college student with an active social life, but she is also a girl with a debilitating attraction to her ex-boyfriend.

“Zoey?” Liz asks, picking up the phone.

She doesn’t walk out of the room, but she also doesn’t put it on speaker. I watch her, her expression turning to annoyed concern. After a moment, she steps farther away, though I can still hear her half of the conversation. An inkling of disquiet gnaws at me. There’s always been a wall between me and anything having to do with Zoey, but I don’t like the worry lines on Liz’s face.

Liz’s voice cuts through the quiet, shrill and nervous. Her eyes meet mine over the back of the couch. “Zoey, what’s happening?”