Sour Grapes (The Blue Plate Series) by Rachel Goodman Read Free Book Online Page B

refuses to obey as I struggle to sit up. The ceiling spins like I’m on a teacup ride, and I collapse back onto the bed.
    Pieces of yesterday flash through my mind. I owe Ryan, his taunting words, and that bottle of No Regrets the middle finger. I haven’t consumed that much alcohol since Nick ended us, after he confessed to always loving Lillie with such heartfelt, sickening sincerity I almost choked on it. I’ve been unfair to you , Nick said. You’ve been a great friend to me when I didn’t deserve one and helped me through the darkest point in my life. I thought I could make this work between us — that I could be that man for you — but I can’t. I don’t love you in the way you need. I’m sorry. I remember how he had the audacity to appear stricken by his admission, as if it was hurting him .
    After a few more failed attempts, I haul myself into a seated position, holding the headboard for stability. Touching the spot where I bumped my forehead on Ryan’s SUV, I wince, the knot tender and larger than I expected. My blouse and skirt have bunched and twisted so they feel as though I’m wearing a full-body straitjacket that reeks of sweat and gasoline. I’m never passing out without changing into pajamas again.
    I look around. The spare room is like that optical illusion with the young girl and the old woman. At first glance it looks unchanged since the time I spent growing up here: the four-poster queen bed flanked by windows decorated with silk draperies, the quaint sitting area featuring armchairs to enjoy the fireplace, the antique writing desk against the far wall. But on closer inspection, the floral wallpaper has yellowed and is peeling in places, the brass light fixture has tarnished and hangs at an awkward angle, and the crown molding is cracked and separating from where it meets the ceiling. The air smells as musty as an old book, thick with dust.
    I stand, and a knife-like pain shoots up my leg. My ankle is puffy and bluish purple, and my knee is scraped from where I landed on it. Limping over to the desk, I grab my cell phone and power it on. A text message from Piper pops up. You skipped the Chanel private showing? After your display at brunch, people are talking, Mags. Call me. I sigh. When are people not talking?
    The icon in the corner shows six missed calls and messages, all from my mother, with more disparaging remarks no doubt. I glimpse at the date.
    Shit.
    My father’s birthday dinner. I’ve never missed a family gathering, so while it’s not unusual my mother has called so many times, it’s strange my father hasn’t reached out at least once. “We’re in this together, Margaret,” he always says.
    How could I forget?
    I picture my parents seated at our formal dining table, my place setting untouched, their conversation stilted without me there to bridge the gap. I picture my father eating his baked potato plain because I wasn’t there to pass him the butter and sour cream, my mother refusing to do so in my absence. I picture my father blowing out the candles on his favorite German chocolate cake, wishing his daughter had remembered.
    I’d been so caught up in my desire to get out of Dallas that his celebration slipped my mind. My father expects so little of me beyond not upsetting my mother. And while he’s rarely home, we both rely on each other to get through the awkward family occasions my mother insists on observing.
    Grammy J appears in the doorway. She walks to where I’m leaning against the desk and presses a mug of tea into my hands. The aroma of jasmine blossoms and orange peel hits my nose. My stomach rolls, but my throat feels as though I’ve swallowed steel wool, so I’m willing to risk it. I take a tentative sip, and the hot liquid brings such relief I could cry.
    Appraising me, Grammy J shakes her head and hands me a paintbrush. “You’re not going to fix your life moping around a rickety old bed-and-breakfast,” she says, patting my arm in a way that feels