The Sunset Sisters: An utterly gripping and emotional page-turner (The Sisterhood Series) Page 14

  “We’re your family,” she continues. “Everyone needs a family. Even you.”

  Patently untrue. I don’t need a family—at least not a biological one. Daniel. Rachel. Christina. Even my patients. They’re all I need. They’re my family.

  “Spare me the lecture, Julie,” I say. “I have a family.”

  “Really? Because, from what I hear, you’re seeing a married man with a family of his own.”

  I feel the air leave my lungs. My jaw falls open.

  “It’s true,” she says, her voice barely a whisper.

  My heart flops inside my chest, a fish thrown to land. I can’t let her see me like this.

  I turn around and walk away.

  Twenty

  Julie

  Friday, July 6th

  Craig is handsome. I knew this already, but it still feels like a surprise every time my eyes land on him. This could be a problem.

  “Is everything all right?” he asks, as I make my way down the stairs. “You’re red.”

  I glance at the mirror. I carefully applied my makeup this morning, but he’s right: my cheeks are flushed, like I used too much blush. I brush a loose strand of hair out of my face. There are three things wrong with my appearance today: no nail polish, hair in a braid, and now my cheeks are too red. Surprisingly, I don’t care. In fact, it feels liberating.

  “All good,” I say.

  The Sky Princess is lying: all is not well in the Kingdom of Montauk. The Fire Princess is under an evil spell, one that has turned her warm heart into ice. She is now the Ice Princess, a malevolent creature who attempted to thrust a frozen stake into the Sky Princess’s heart.

  We make our way towards his house. It’s only a short walk from Nana’s, which is less than ideal. Right now, I’d prefer to have an ocean between Cassie and me. I think back to how differently I felt weeks ago, when I arrived in Montauk, how hopeful I’d been that we’d be able to get along. To find our way back to each other. Now, I’m hurt. And more than a little angry, too. Cassie isn’t the only sister who can be angry.

  Craig’s house is cute: stone and whitewashed wood, barn wood beams, a wraparound porch. Inside, there’s a cozy lived-in feel—toys scattered around the living room, throw pillows in disarray on the couch, a delicious cookie-dough whiff in the air. I wonder how he can afford to live here when he works at a pub. The property taxes alone are likely to be astronomical. He doesn’t strike me as the type with family money.

  “Kids,” Craig calls out. Thundering footsteps follow.

  I see Ben first. He has blowfish cheeks and Craig’s eyes. He looks shy and pensive, although that might be because he’s wearing round-rimmed glasses. Kiki is behind him, lifting her arms towards Craig, a pleading look in her eyes. She has wispy blond hair that’s almost white and she’s so petite that Craig barely needs to move a muscle to pick her up.

  “This is Ben.” Craig places a hand on his son’s shoulder. “And this little munchkin is Kiki.” He glances at his daughter, who is resting on his shoulder like a cute baby monkey. My heart gives a little squeeze. I want that so badly.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Kiki says with a big smile.

  “It’s nice to meet you as well, Kiki.” I turn to Ben. “And you, too, Ben.”

  “Hi.” Ben presses his glasses against his face with his index finger.

  “Julie is Nana Bertie’s granddaughter,” Craig says.

  “Cool,” Kiki’s grins. “Did you know her when you were my age? I’m four.”

  “I met her when I was older.”

  “My age?” Ben asks curiously. “I’m six and a half.”

  “I was nine when I met her.”

  “Wow,” Kiki’s eyes widen. “You were old.”

  “Young lady, where are your manners?” Craig lowers her to the ground.

  “That’s all right.” I crouch so that our eyes are level. “Nine is pretty old.” I wink. It’s been ages since I babysat—the last time was in college, I think—but being around kids has always felt natural to me. Natural and wonderful.

  “How old are you now?” Kiki asks.

  “A lady never tells,” I say. I get closer to her. She smells of strawberry shampoo. Then, in a whisper: “But just between us girls, I’m thirty-one.”

  “Wow!”

  “Shh,” I lift my finger against my lips. “It’s our secret.”

  She beams at me. I switch over to Ben. “So, Ben, I hear you like Minecraft.”

  “Yeah.” His eyes shine. “Do you?”

  “I’ve never played it, actually. I was hoping you could show me? Is it true you can build something called a portal?”

  He bobs his head eagerly. “It’s really easy.”

  “Time for me to go,” Craig says. “You two behave for Julie. I’ll be back before dinner.” He turns to me. “Do you maybe want to join us? Since you won’t let me pay you, maybe I could wow you with my culinary skills.”

  “You cook?”

  “Daddy can’t cook!” Kiki giggles.

  “Busted.” Craig laughs. “But I do a mean takeout. Unless you have plans?”

  “No plans,” I say. I might not even have a house to go back to. After what happened, I wouldn’t put it past Cassie to change the locks on me.

  I’m still shaken up. Not because of our argument, but because of what I now know to be true. Sophie is right: Cassie is seeing a married man. It’s a stunning revelation. Completely out of character for Cassie. She knows how badly affairs can turn out. We both do.

  “It’s a date then,” Craig says. And now his cheeks are red.

  Twenty-One

  Cassie

  Friday, July 6th

  The woman behind the counter has figured out who I am.

  Her name is Rhonda—it’s on her name tag, pinned in block letters above her left breast. She’s grinning at me, maniacally. This isn’t the first time someone has made the connection. I’m not a celebrity, far from it. But, on occasion, I am recognized. When this happens, I am expected to be pleasant, charming. Levelheaded, too—I’m known for my sobering advice. Above all, I mustn’t act crazy.

  Today, this will be a challenge.

  I order one scoop of strawberry ice cream. I take a couple of bars labeled Emergency Chocolate—a white cross against a red background and a promise of immediate relief of all my chocolate cravings. A winning marketing campaign.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” Rhonda says when I’m paying. She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Your hair is different, but it’s you.”

  “I’m Cassie,” I say.

  “I knew it!” A vindicated smile. “I love your show.”

  “Thank you,” I say. It’s not my show. I don’t bother to point this out.

  “I make my husband watch every week. We never miss an episode. It’s like couples’ counseling for us, but free. He won’t admit it, but he loves it.”

  I laugh in solidarity. It’s all people want: to feel like others are on their side. Validation. I wish I could make small talk with her. For the most part, I enjoy meeting fans—especially ones who work here. The Fudge Company is a Southampton landmark. But not today. I overtip and then excuse myself.

  Daniel calls me when I’m stepping out of the shop. Main Street is bustling, decked out in red, blue, and white. Apparently, the Fourth is a weeklong event in the Hamptons.

  “Are you OK?” he asks, his voice heavy with concern. I’d texted him earlier to tell him that Julie knows about us.

  “Not really.”

  An understatement. The truth: I’ve been fighting off an anxiety attack. Julie does not know about Daniel and me—she can’t. There isn’t any overlap in our lives. I’ve checked. I’m thorough. I did my homework. I always do.

  Except I must’ve missed something. Because she knows, somehow.

  “How did she find out?” Daniel asks.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  I’ve been entertaining irrational thoughts. My grandmother had many talents, some that were a bit…witchy.
I sound foolish, I know. I’m not suggesting Nana had supernatural powers. But I’ve witnessed her intuition verge into clairvoyance. Her predictions were famous on the island. Hurricanes. Minor accidents. Sebastian’s death.

  What if Julie has inherited Nana’s abilities?

  I don’t share this theory with Daniel. He fell in love with a sensible, rational woman. Not some nutjob who believes in magic. Besides, he has enough on his plate.

  The only logical explanation: someone has told Julie. Except the only people who know, apart from Daniel and me, are Bella, Christina, and Rachel. And I trust them completely. Tatiana knows, too—obviously. But she wouldn’t have said anything. She’s too hung up on appearances. Besides, if she wanted to enact revenge, she’d tell the world—not my half-sister.

  “What should we do?” he asks.

  It all depends on how Julie knows—and whether or not she’s planning on sharing this information. I tell him as much now.

  “What if you talked to her?” he asks. “Asked her to keep this to herself?”

  “We don’t exactly get along.” A pause. “I hate this,” I say. “And not just for the obvious reasons. I don’t like that she knows things about me. Things other people don’t.”

  “It’s a violation of your privacy.”

  That it is—I feel exposed, vulnerable. But it’s more than that. Julie and I may be estranged, but for some annoying reason her opinion still matters.

  “I don’t want her thinking I’m some kind of fraud.”

  “One more reason to talk to her. Explain our situation.”

  “I don’t think that’s an option anymore,” I say. “All we do is ignore each other and argue. She’s developed a confrontational streak.” It’s true: the Julie I knew never would’ve stood up to me like that. If it weren’t so upsetting, I’d almost be proud of her.

  I go by a gaggle of glittering, beautiful people who look utterly untroubled. This makes sense: they’re here out of their own volition. No one is forcing them to spend a month in Montauk. I’m hit with an odd sensation, a déjà vu of sorts. Or maybe it’s just an amalgamation of memories: Julie and me, ages nine through seventeen, walking down this very street, ice cream cones in hand. She’d look at window displays—mostly in clothing boutiques—and say that one day she’d have enough money to buy anything in them. It wasn’t long before I understood that what she wanted weren’t the things themselves—it was the sense of freedom. In many ways, Julie’s life was much more carefree than mine. She didn’t monitor our father’s moods, didn’t worry about him breaking things around their house or hitting her mother. But she did worry about making ends meet—her financial situation was considerably different from mine.

  At the end of the day, we’re both shaped by our traumas.

  Although she seems to have escaped hers: this new Julie—sophisticated and moneyed and apparently unafraid of confrontation—can probably buy anything she wants. I wonder if financial freedom is as rewarding as she thought it would be.

  “Then maybe it’s time to interrupt the cycle by changing the narrative,” Daniel suggests. “Seriously, it might do you good. It’s obvious you two have a lot of repressed issues to work through. Otherwise you wouldn’t be fighting all the time.”

  “You really need to stop shrinking me.”

  “I learned from the best.” He chuckles.

  It’s good to hear him laugh. I tell him as much.

  “I can’t wait to see you,” he says.

  “Me, too.”

  A pause. I can hear Daniel thinking on the other end of the line.

  “Promise you won’t change your mind?” he asks. “Promise you’ll still choose happiness?”

  His words take me back. Daniel knows about Mia’s advice—he knows everything there is to know about me.

  It happened on the morning after my first night with Daniel. I’d woken up buoyed by giddiness. Daniel was still asleep next to me, snoring under the tangled sheets. Being with him had been exhilarating. Not just the sex itself, but the experience of giving into emotions that I had fought for so long. We’d spent the entire night talking and making love. I had finally let my guard down. I felt alive. Free.

  It wasn’t until his phone rang that I allowed myself to fully consider what I’d done.

  A baby picture of Angie flooded the screen—wide, trusting eyes, toothless smile—under the word HOME.

  Home. As in the house he shared with his wife and kids. Just like the house I used to share with my parents. A structure made of cement, wooden boards, bricks—and lies.

  I was the lie in Daniel’s life. I was the other woman.

  I don’t remember putting clothes on, but I did. I also don’t remember running to the coffee shop on the corner, but I did that, too. When I got there, I called Mia and begged her for an emergency session. I must’ve sounded really desperate because she agreed to see me right away.

  Mia already knew about Daniel. It had been months since he and I became friends, and I’d spent the last four (maybe even five) sessions discussing him, battling my desire to be with him against the morality of having an affair with a married man. I updated her on our night together.

  “You gave in to your feelings,” Mia said. Words eerily similar to the ones I’d thought of less than an hour before, when I woke up. But now they sounded different: loaded, selfish. Wrong. “This is a big step for you.”

  “A step in the wrong direction.”

  She cocked her head to the side. A non-reply. I was used to this.

  “I’ve been rationalizing it,” I continued. “Telling myself that his wife cheated on him first. That he’s already asked for a divorce, but she won’t give it to him. That’s she’s using their daughter like a poker chip. That they’re not really married. But it doesn’t matter. It’s still wrong. Being with Daniel is wrong.”

  “But is it what you want?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “You tell me,” she said. “You’ve never asked for an emergency session before.”

  “I’ve never slept with a married man before, either.”

  “Is that the only thing that’s different about this?”

  Now I was confused. I was also beginning to think I was overpaying Mia.

  “You have a history of self-deprivation,” Mia said.

  An understatement: Mia was the one who diagnosed me with severe anxiety disorder (from watching my parents argue) and post-traumatic stress disorder (from my mother’s death). The combination of the two had manifested itself in the form of an obsessive-compulsive disorder where I routinely deprived myself of things—big and small—that brought me joy in an attempt to punish myself. A twisted way of dealing with the guilt I carried over my mother’s death.

  Ever since I was a little girl, I knew I had one job: protecting my mother. And now I’d failed. She was gone, dead. All that was left was pain. And this pain became my companion. A constant reminder of my mom, and of my failure. When it began to recede, I was horrified. I didn’t deserve to feel better, to heal. I deserved the hollowness of grief. I missed the pain. And so I found ways to pluck joy out of my life, to experience loss. I stopped reading, which had always been my biggest pleasure. Stopped eating food I enjoyed. In my darkest time, I went four days without eating anything at all. I almost had to be hospitalized. And, of course, I stopped talking to Julie.

  “We’ve talked about how this tendency is connected to feeling of self-blame,” she continued. “And now you’re blaming yourself for having been intimate with Daniel.”

  I frowned. Was Mia worried I’d slip back into my old habits? I could understand the concern: keeping my OCD at bay was a daily struggle. But today I had more pressing issues to address. I told her as much.

  “What is your goal for today’s session?” she asked.

  It was a question she often asked—one I usually enjoyed answering. I liked the feeling of control that came with being goal-oriented. But that day I didn’t have an answer.

  “I’m not sure,�
� I admitted.

  “Is it possible you’re here to ask for permission?” Mia asked. “To be with Daniel?”

  “Too late for that,” I said. A lame attempt at a joke.

  She indulged me with a kind smile. “You’re very skilled at denying yourself what you want, Cassie. Food, hobbies, relationships. Let me ask you this: do you want to deny yourself the chance to be with Daniel?”

  My response was automatic. I didn’t think about it—not even for a second.

  “No,” I said. “It’s wrong, but I don’t want to give him up.” I paused, shaking my head. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

  “This is a safe space.”

  I nodded. I understood that. “But I also want to be a good person.”

  “And you don’t think you can be a good person and be with him?”

  “No.”

  “I’d like to revisit that later. But for now, let’s assume that’s true. If you want to be a good person and being with Daniel is incompatible with that goal, what makes you want to be with him?”

  “He makes me happy.”

  A simple truth, but one I hadn’t articulated before: being with Daniel brought me joy. Unbridled, all-consuming joy. A feeling I hadn’t experienced in years.

  Mia nodded. “Then, for now, what you have to ask yourself is this: do you want to be good or do you want to be happy?”

  When I got back to my apartment, Daniel was still there. He’d been calling me nonstop, worried. At that point he knew all there was to know about me—my childhood, my estranged relationship with my sister, my mental health issues. Daniel is a great listener, it’s one of the reasons why we became so close, so fast. He was able to grasp the magnitude of what I’d just done. He understood me. All of me.

  I told him I loved him. I told him I chose happiness.

  And happiness meant being with him.

  At the time, I never thought I’d ask him to leave his wife. Why should he risk losing custody of Angie? If I’m being honest, there was a degree of comfort that came with that. I didn’t have to worry about traditional relationship milestones: anniversaries, engagement, marriage, babies. I never wanted any of that, anyway. It was safer that way. Less risky.