Bright Before Sunrise by Tiffany Schmidt Read Free Book Online Page B

day, now go get the rest of ’em.” Each night we’d go around the table and share one thing we’d done to make the world a better place. Evy was sometimes snarky, Mom often complained about it, but I always took it seriously and mentally screened my whole day for the story that would make him proudest.
    I still lie in bed each night and whisper my answer to the ceiling.
    If I say this to Mom, she’ll sigh. One of those long breaths that are drenched in her desolation and whisper,
Why would you tell me this when you know it’s only going to upset me?
    I need to change the subject, but my thoughts are stuck and it hurts to breathe.
    “He was the perfect therapist …,” Mom says softly, and I don’t dare look at her for fear she’ll stop talking. “He made each of his clients feel like the most important person in the world, yet he left all their sob stories in the office—shook it off and came home. You’re the same, baby. You make everyone feel better about themselves, but not much touches you.”
    Could he
really
compartmentalize like that? Or had he been haunted by his clients’ problems, like how I can’t forget the way my thoughtless words hurt Silvie earlier? There’s a difference between not caring and not
showing
that you care.
    “Teflon girl,” I mutter, switching hands for Mina.
    “What?”
    “That’s Amelia’s new thing—she says nothing sticks to me. Of course,
everything
sticks to her.” My best friend with her
causes du jour
and debate club presidency wears her heart on her sleeve. Actually, she wears her heart like a billboard.
    Mom laughs. “I like that. So, what are your plans tonight?” This is usually her first question once we are settled in our chairs. I guess we’re back on script.
    “After we get Evy?”
    “Sure. Or I can drop you home on my way to the airport.”
    I pick my words carefully. Is there a non-insulting way to say I didn’t make plans because I’m waiting for her to break down?
    “I figured the three of us would do dinner and then I’d wait and see.”
    “I can’t do dinner—I’m meeting Aunt Joan. Maybe Evy? But no. I’m pretty sure she mentioned plans with Brooke.” Mom’s inspecting the cuticles Pearl just trimmed, her voice matter-of-fact.
    “Oh, but …” I swallow the rest of the sentence.
    “Do you want me to cancel?”
    “No, you don’t have to.” I pull my hand out of my bowl and set it dripping in my lap. Mina clucks her disapproval but continues to shape my other hand with her file. “It’ll be good for me. Relaxing.” My mind is cycling through surprise to extreme relief. I need to hold it together now for Mom, summon enough energy to be excited to see Evy—but then … then I can climb under the covers and hide until tomorrow.
    “You could call that boy you went out with last week. What was his name? Joshua?”
    “Jeremy,” I supply. “Maybe. We’ll see.”
    In the six years we’ve been coming to this salon, I’ve become accustomed to treating it like the kitchen table. Mom used to say, “It’s not like they understand us anyhow,” which makes me uncomfortable in an is-that-racist-or-just-stupid? way. But Mina doesn’t offer her opinions, and Pearl never says anything but “thank you,” “sit,” and “other hand.” They communicate with us in gestures and nods, gossiping among themselves in Korean, though I know they’re both fluent in English. They take their cues from Mom, and she insists that our “girl time” include confessions and no interruptions.
    Not that I ever have much to confess. It’d been way more scandalous when Evy sat between us, but she’d quit coming when she was fifteen—choosing to color her nails with Sharpies, highlighters, and Wite-Out and refusing to play Gossip Quest on Mom’s terms.
    “Excuse me.” The woman at the table to my left leans over. “You’re Andrea Waterford, right? We met a few weeks ago at Emma Murphy’s jewelry party. You made that fabulous spinach dip. I