“Ah, hell,” mumbles Jack. “We’re having the sex talk with my baby sister.”
“Is she dating?” Gavin demands of West and Ethan. “She can’t be dating. Now we have to beat the snot out of some horny teenager. You should have told me this was going on.”
“Make them stop,” I whisper to Ethan. Along with the dread of speeches and vomiting, I’m also dying of embarrassment.
“She’s not dating!” West shudders as if spiders cover him. “That’s just sick, Rach. Don’t talk like that. Ever. Again.”
Gavin sends me a glare clearly meant to warn me off from kissing and dating boys before he heads for the main ballroom. The look is lost on me as either of those things happening would require a guy first showing interest in my general direction.
Jack and West follow Gavin, both mumbling about having to beat up boys. Ethan locks an arm around my neck and pushes me forward. “Two sentences. Three tops.”
Easy for him to say. He’s not the one that has to stand in front of hundreds of people. Each of them hanging on my every said and unsaid word. The adults’ eyes judging my shaking hands and quavering voice. Anyone age eighteen or below will giggle as they remember my past failure involving a crowd.
With each step, my knees tremble as if they’re going to buckle and a cold sweat breaks out along the nape of my neck. My stomach lurches and I clap a hand over my mouth. As I fall back against the wall, Ethan’s eyes widen with concern. My gaze flickers to our brothers and he jumps in front of me, blocking their view.
“Give me a sec with her,” he calls out. “I promise she won’t run.”
“Ethan,” I warn, the moment I hear the doors to the ballroom click shut.
Ethan presses his hand into my back, edges me into the women’s bathroom and locks the door behind him. I drop my shoes and they clatter against the floor of the empty restroom. I stumble and trip over my big, fluffy dress and barely catch the toilet. Water runs in the sink behind me and Ethan approaches when I’m able to breathe for thirty seconds without retching.
He hands me a cold, wet paper towel. “Was there blood?”
I wipe my face gingerly. “No. Don’t tell Mom or Dad, okay? Or anyone else.”
“What the hell? I thought you hadn’t had an episode since freshman year.” I wince from the mixture of anger and reprimand in his tone.
I hate this illness. I hate it in ways that make my blood run cold and my muscles heavy with rage. I hate the way my family has always looked at me as if I’m breakable. I hate how I’ve been a constant disappointment when each of my brothers has excelled at so many public things like sports or debate teams.
I’m always off in the shadows and after my disastrous fifteenth birthday, I decided to suck it up and force a happy public front even if I’m dying inside. My facade must be working if Mom and Dad permitted me to make the speech when I offered. They’d never do anything to purposely upset me.
“Have you been throwing up this entire time?” Ethan persists.
“Leave it alone.”
He rubs his eyes. “Mom and Dad want to know when you have a panic attack. I want to know. This isn’t a game.”
My temples throb. I’m the weakest member of this family. I always have been. “If I tell them, they’ll send me home and Mom will hover. You guys are right. I’m a wuss and I can get through this. Tonight isn’t about me. It’s about Mom and Dad. This is their night to remember Colleen, and I can’t stand in the way of that, okay?”
Ethan slides down the wall and sits beside me. “I’ll cover you tonight. Get through the speech, then go for a drive. I’ll make sure you aren’t missed.” He sighs. “I’ll do anything to keep you from getting sick again.”
Chapter 3
Isaiah
I ENTER THE OLD TWO-STORY house converted into apartments and I’m greeted by the sound of Elvis Presley’s “Blue Christmas” still carrying through the first-floor apartment’s door. Skipping the third and sixth steps because of dry rot, I climb the stairs and slip into the door on the right.
I’ve been here since August, even though Courtney believes I live in a foster home. What she doesn’t know doesn’t hurt me. My assigned foster family agreed to let me move out as long as I stay clear of trouble and they keep receiving their checks from the state.
Plaster flakes from the walls when a train rolls by, the wood smells like old men when it rains and rats the size of rabbits call it home, but this place beats the hell out of foster care.
Noah walks out of the bedroom with a smug smile and no shirt. “Hey, baby, Isaiah’s back.”
“Hi, Isaiah!” Echo pops her head around the halfway-open door to the bedroom. Her red curls flow over her shoulder.
“Hey, Echo,” I say in return as she closes the door. A trail of shoes, Noah’s shirt and Echo’s sweater make a path from the couch to the bedroom. Looks like the two enjoyed my belated Christmas present to them: time alone.
Noah picks their clothes up off the floor. He knocks on the bedroom door, opens it and mumbles something as he hands her the sweater. Noah has tried to play it off for a couple of weeks, but he’s worried about her. To be honest, so am I. Echo began covering her arms again last week.
He touches her face as he talks to her. It’s a simple touch, but one she responds to by hugging him. I once thought I had found what Noah and Echo share: love. But I was mistaken, or maybe I was too late. Either way, I f**ked up.