Chapter 14

Raegan

The whirlwind of the last twenty minutes has stolen twenty years off my life. I'm sure of it. Between screaming for Adele and Cheyenne to follow me through the pandemonium of the dance floor, collecting my niece's guitar and gear from behind the stage, and watching Micah barrel through the back door with my petite, wig-less mother in his arms like Kevin Costner in The Bodyguard, I've nearly hyperventilated a dozen times. As if that wasn't bad enough, the irritated skin on the inside of my left wrist has erupted in stress hives.

By the time our town car slams to a stop at our hotel, the driver has already called for the security team to escort us to our floor via a staff elevator.

The instant the elevator doors open to reveal our quiet hallway, an out-of-breath Adele whirls on Mama. "Did I or did I not warn against something like this happening without a proper security detail?"

"We're all fine, darling. There's no need to overreact."

"Overreact?" Adele scoffs. "You could have been trampled—or worse!"

"Yet instead I was saved by a bus driver in shining armor." Mama beams up at Micah and pats his arm. "Thank you again, Micah dear. I just knew those beefy biceps of yours would come in handy."

I close my eyes, wishing I could evaporate along with the sweat that's prickling at the back of my neck. Moments like these are when I wish I could slip away into a different life. Preferably a fictional one.

"Mother." Adele's voice is low and controlled when she speaks again. "Do you not realize how your recklessness put all of us at risk tonight, my daughter included? Safety is not something we have the luxury to take lightly."

"Adele," I begin, "I don't think Mama was intentionally being reckless. I think—"

"Did you know about this, Raegan?" Her gaze spears me through. "Were you involved in advocating for my daughter to quit school?"

"No, I didn't know anything about tonight." I glance at my niece. "But Cheyenne is an adult, and she's—"

"Mother." Cheyenne steps in front of me. "If you need to blame someone for what happened tonight, then blame me. I'm the one who called Nonnie. She was only trying to help make my dreams come true."

"Dreams are what children speak of, not mature and responsible adults. I will not support you throwing away every opportunity we've worked so hard for just because your last name hands you a golden ticket. The second that ticket is no longer shiny, you'll be crumpled up and thrown away, just like every other girl your age who thinks she has what it takes to make it in this industry." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "This is not the future we planned for you."

My sister's targeted words throw me back into a memory so vivid my entire body rocks off-center. Adele, sitting across from me at Mama's kitchen table where Daddy once sat with his morning coffee and Bible, sifting through the contract pages I'd just received from a renowned literary agent offering me and my novel representation just over a year ago.

She sets it down and lets out a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry, Raegan. But I can't support you signing this right now."

"What?" Shock vibrates my vocal chords. "Why not?"

"Because it's clear this woman is only interested in representing your last name, not your talent. And unfortunately, those things can't ever be separated. Even if you're half as good of a writer as she's said you are, you'll forever be Luella Farrow's daughter first. You'll be judged differently than your peers—every move you make, every book you write, every interview you give." She lays her palm on the stack of freshly printed papers. "Fame has a price tag, and all of us have paid a portion of it in our own way. A literary agent will never have your best interest in mind, and certainly not your family's. I need you to put this on hold for now, especially in the wake of everything that's happened. It's not the right time."

Cheyenne's heated debate launches my mind out of the past and back to the present. "What if I don't want the future you've planned for me? Nonnie has had a fifty-year career in music. Her success is the only reason you have a job—"

"My job is based on the cruel understanding that this industry has far less to do with talent and far more to do with how much you're willing to let it suck from your soul." Adele refocuses her gaze on Mama. "If you've led her to believe that you've somehow arrived at this place of stardom unscathed, then you should be ashamed of yourself. Because none of us have."

Adele stares at our mama for so long that my lungs burn from the charge in the air. And then, without another word, my oldest sister stalks down the hallway. Alone. It's so quiet when she makes it to her room that the swipe and click of her access key card doesn't prepare me for the sharp rattle in my chest when the door slams shut behind her.

Nobody speaks for close to a minute. "Looks like I'll be bunking with you tonight, Nonnie," Cheyenne says, resigned.

Mama nods, but her gaze remains fixed on Adele's closed door. "She'll come around, sweetheart. Don't you worry."

But worry is exactly what I hear in Mama's faint voice.

With her University of San Francisco duffel bag flung over her shoulder and her guitar case in hand, Cheyenne kisses me goodnight before she follows Mama down the hall to her suite. I'm just about to head to my own room, as I desperately need to locate my emergency supply of antihistamines in my travel kit, when a sickening thud of realization hits my gut at what appears to be the same time it hits Micah's.

We whirl around to face each other, our eyes panicked.

"Where's Hattie?" We both demand in unison.

We point at each other. "I thought you had her."

"Me?" He points the finger at himself. "Why would I have her?"

"Because you were the one on the dance floor."

"Right," he remarks slowly, "only you seem to be forgetting the part where I was busy rescuing your mother from being mowed down by a mob. Forgive me for assuming you conducted a head count of the members in your immediate family before our getaway car left the premises."

"I did conduct a head count," I sputter back. "There were five of us in that car...." But my argument cools as soon as I recall why there were five of us in that car. Cheyenne. I slap my hand to my mouth and feel my eyes bulge in horror as I speak around my trembling fingers. "I forgot my sister."

"No, we all forgot your sister," Micah says, gripping my arm and tugging me toward the elevator. "The important thing is we remembered her. We'll simply order a rideshare and pick her up. She'll be fine."

"Don't say fine," I nearly cry as the elevator door closes us inside again. "You've ruined that word for me forever."

For once, Micah has no response, and I'm ninety-nine percent sure we're both better off for it.

By the time we're inside the rideshare—an electric blue four-door hatchback, driven by a kid who can't be much older than eighteen, given his backward ball cap and baby-face grin—I've panic-dialed my sister five times without an answer. I can feel the hive vine snaking up my forearm and settling into the crook of my elbow, but I don't have the time or the mental capacity to care. If something happens to Hattie because of me, I'll—

"Do you have a tracking app on her phone?" Micah's question feels like a divine intervention.

I gasp. "Yes! Oh my gosh! You're a genius!"

"I was hoping you'd finally recognize that." He reaches over and squeezes my kneecap. "Breathe, Raegan. We'll find her."

As quickly as my fumbling fingers can move, I tap into our shared family app and spot Hattie's location on the map. She's not at Carter's. It looks like she's now across the street at someplace called Ye Ol' Western Bar and Grill. I provide the address to our driver, and within a few minutes, we've pulled up, jumped out, and rushed inside a bar that looks like it could be a set in a Louis L'Amour novel.

"There she is," Micah says, barreling ahead to where Hattie's slumped on a stool, her head down on the glossy bar top. Alone.

"She belong to you, mister?" the barkeep asks.

"To us, yes." Micah moves his finger between him and me, and a warm floaty feeling is suddenly at war with my surge of adrenaline.

"Lady came in about twenty minutes ago with a no-good crowd. They all moved on after her credit card was declined."

I shiver at the idea of anyone trying to take advantage of my sister and set a protective hand on her back. She barely makes the effort to lift her head. "Hattie? Honey, are you alright? We're here to take you back to the hotel."

"Just leave me," she slurs. "I'm a terrible person."

"We're not leaving you." Not for a second time, anyway.

"Afraid she can't leave without paying off her balance. I ran her card twice," the barkeep states. "Receipt says non-sufficient funds."

"Here." Micah hands his Visa over to the guy with three piercings in his bottom lip, and I assure him I'll reimburse the total as soon as we get back to the hotel. He shakes his head. "Don't worry about it."

So instead, I worry about how to get my sister into a standing position, which is much harder than it looks in the movies. It doesn't matter how petite a person is when they literally can't lift their own legs to save their soul. When Micah grabs her opposite arm and slings it around his neck, our walking speed triples. That is, until it's time to brainstorm the best way to get her into the back of a sedan while our young driver offers us his pro tips on transporting intoxicated passengers. I'm wondering if he's learned these best practices from the college stamped across his backward hat or from this side hustle he looks in no way old enough to have.

"I'd scoot her to the middle seat," he says. "That way she's propped up between the two of you like the tomato plants in Mom's garden cages."

"Good advice," Micah says, shooting me an amused look as he hands me the other end of Hattie's buckle. Immediately after I click her in, her head lolls back against the seat.

Micah thanks our driver again for agreeing to wait for us while we took care of business inside the bar and has just started to ask him questions about his life when Hattie begins to groan and clutch at her abdomen.

With lightning-speed reflexes, Micah flicks the ball cap off our young driver's head and apologizes profusely as Hattie lurches forward, proceeding to empty the contents of her stomach into the offering Micah holds between his hands. The entire production is over in less than five seconds, and yet I know it will scar the majority of us for life.

Our driver laughs and thankfully rolls down the windows. "Bruh! Sick catch! And don't worry about the hat. It's not mine. I stole it from my brother after he kissed my girlfriend last week. Poetic justice, right?" He signals a turn. "There's a trash can at the end of this street. I'll pull up so you can toss it. But I think I'll snap a pic first—ya know, to offer Dillan some closure."

Horrified at, well, everything that's transpired up to this point, I eye Micah, who is obviously trying his hardest not to gag at the smell wafting in the back seat despite the added airflow.

"That's not how closure works," Micah says in a decidedly puny voice.

"What's that?" our driver asks as he pulls up to the curb and hands back a stack of McDonald's napkins to clean Hattie's face.

"Nothing," Micah replies as I reach across Hattie and drop the used napkins into said closure cap.

"I'm so, so sorry about this, Micah," I whisper.

His nod is subtle yet concentrated as our driver opens his door for him to make a smooth exit and transfer to the garbage can.

The minute we're driving again, Hattie pushes up to a sitting position and rests her head on my shoulder.

"Sunny Bear? Do you think I'm a b-b-b-ad mom?" Her question is so slurred and pained, my stomach cramps.

"Of course I don't. You're a wonderful mother."

"But what if ... what if my kids choose Fran-chessa?" It takes me a second to interpret her brutal pronunciation of Francesca's name.

"That won't happen. Your kids adore you."

"They adore her, too. Just like they adore her big Greek family and her big Greek house, and soon they'll love her big Greek wedding, too." A sob breaks from her throat. "He's marrying her, Raegan. He asked a twenty-four-year-old to marry him in front of my kids."

My insides scream with outrage. "Oh, Hattie. No."

"What if ... what if he takes them from me forever?"

Fear grips me in its talons the same way it did two months after my nephew Aiden was born and I found Hattie catatonic on the bathroom floor while he screamed in his crib and Anabelle walked through the house with a half-eaten bowl of sliced strawberries, most of which were smeared on the front of her mermaid nightgown. And then I think of how hard Hattie fought to get well again, how hard we all fought to wage war against the cloud of postpartum depression that stole her from us for nearly a year.

I can't let her go back to that dark place again.

And the truth is, she's been teetering on the edge since the day Adele caught Peter alone with Francesca in the recording studio.

Our driver is pulling into the hotel's unloading zone when I start in with a plethora of panicked assurances in Hattie's ear.

Micah reaches behind her back and clasps my shoulder, his expression both kind and sympathetic when he says, "She can't hear reason in this state, Raegan. Why don't I help you get her inside and cleaned up, and then we can assess what should happen next."

I nod because there's simply nothing else I can do.

It's the same response I give him when he suggests we take her back to my room for the cleanup portion of our plan. And again when he suggests I help her into some more comfortable attire before we prop her on my sofa so she can hydrate before sleeping off her intoxication. And then again when he offers to come back and check on us after he showers.

Of all the plans he's suggested tonight, that one is by far my favorite.