Irrational (Underneath it All Series: Book Two) (An Alpha Billionaire Romance) (3 page)

She wanted to see me.

M
y sister was up to something.

She’d only been crashing on my couch for twenty-four hours and in that span of time, we’d gone through all the stages of grief.

Denial and isolation was first. As soon as we walked through the door, she’d dumped her suitcase on the couch and parked herself beside it. My questions were answered with grunts, shrugs, and flat out silence.

Who the hell was that dude?

Shrug.

How long has he been living at the house?

That got me a sigh
and
a shrug.

Just how friendly is he?

That was the most important question, and her silence got the big sister in me roaring. All the worst case scenarios, the nightmares, came knocking. The questions that I was gonna ask next were the kind that twisted my stomach into knots and got my fists ready for battle. If that asshole did what I thought he did, he wasn’t going to live long enough to hurt anyone else.

You can’t just not answer that question, Rose. How friendly is he?

That at least got a clipped, “He didn’t touch me, Sadie.”

My sigh of relief was short-lived because the anger phase was next and she didn’t pull any punches. When I brought out an extra blanket and pillows for her, she’d snatched a pillow from me and growled. Not a growl-like tone, she literally
growled
.

“You have no idea how hard it is to live with, Mom,” she’d said accusatorially. “To take care of her, to try and keep her together because the alternative is there’s no groceries in the fridge and the bills don’t get paid.” Eyes that looked like mine, felt the same hurt I’d endured, cut right through me. “Then I have to turn to you. Bother you. You washed your hands of her and you don’t even get what that did to me. You left me all alone.”

How could I blame her for being angry?

I’d been angry. I was still angry.

The helplessness that I felt knowing that no matter how badly I wished things were different ultimately, it was my mother's choice, came back with a vengeance. She had to decide that she cared about someone other than herself. She had to be a mother. Every chance she got, she chose herself.

My detachment had nothing to do with Rose, but at the end of the day, Rose was the one that paid for the war that I'd waged on my mother—and there were no victors.

After we sat in even more uncomfortable silence, I painfully listened to Rose bargain. Watching her pick at her nails, trying to take it all on herself, tore my heart in half. I'd done the same thing, telling myself that if I stayed out of her way, that would make my mother happier. If I wasn't so demanding of her love, maybe she'd give it freely. If I made all A's and was the best at everything, she wouldn't have a choice but to be proud. To care.

When I tried to explain that I got it, that I'd been where Rose was, so frustrated and angry, Rose shut up altogether and just cried. When we were kids, she let me hold her when she was sad, but in the precious hours we got together now, she’d locked herself in the bathroom and ignored my attempts to comfort her.

It was hard to not take it personally, but I understood her anger. Her grief. And when she’d finally emerged, I’d received stone cold acceptance.

I couldn't force Rose to let me in. Hell, I had no right to even ask it of her when I kept my own shit to myself. Still, her complete change from ‘go away' to eager to help me with dinner after her virtual hunger strike the day before...It made me worry even more. My head spun and my ‘big sis’ sense tingled. The tingle was upgraded to a full-on vibration the minute Rose said she wanted to cook dinner.

I peered over at her from the worn couch in my living room. If disaster struck, which was not out of the question since Rose was infamous for burning pots of water, I wouldn't have to book it to her rescue at least.

According to the gum popping rental agent who'd rolled her eyes every time I asked a question when I first toured the apartment, the square footage was 'cozy'. Cozy was being generous. Cramped was being honest.

"Everything okay over there?" I knew that boiling water generated a fair amount of steam and unless I heard sirens in the distance I didn't need to be alarmed, but I couldn't help myself.

"Hey!" Rose wielded the wooden spoon like a weapon. "I can cook spaghetti noodles just fine."

"The last time you made spaghetti noodles for me, you forgot to actually boil them," I reminded her with a smirk. To be fair, she was ten years old at the time and it was pretty clear that somewhere along the way, she discovered that no one likes their spaghetti crunchy.

"Your kitchen is too sm-
cozy
," she corrected, making air quotes as she regurgitated the story I told her in an effort to connect. "If you hover, I’m just going to make a mess and ruin everything."

We'd been sparring back and forth since I agreed to let her make dinner, but her voice changed with her last sentence. I scooted to the edge of the couch, picking at the frayed chenille fabric. Did our mother give her a hard time when she offered to help in the kitchen? Even if I did it all in good fun, I didn't want to trigger her or seem ungrateful. 

"Rose, I just-"

"I mean, who do you think cooks at home? Mom would starve if it wasn't for me.
I
would starve."

The undercurrent I’d sensed in her voice was a little more than that. It was a riptide that would have brought me to my knees if I wasn't literally squeezing the life out of the cushion. It was easy to be angry at my mother. She moved in some guy with her underage daughter. She packed Rose's bag like she was running some sort of hotel. It took more than four walls to make a home and the place we grew up was pretty much a home in name only, thanks to that woman. But the fury that poured gasoline in my veins and lit a match didn't compare to the guilt that pulverized my heart. Our mother had committed her sins, with no visible sign that she would ever admit, never mind actually taking steps to atone.

What was my excuse? I’d been so blinded by my resentment that I threw the baby out with the bath water. When was the last time I came home just to hang out with Rose? When was the last time I reached out and just checked on her and listened to her and was just
there
? Sure, I would drop any and everything to swoop in to save the day, but when I eyed the taut lines in her back, it was clear that she needed a sister more than a savior.

I scooted from the couch and the floor didn't do a thing to mask my approach. Rose smacked her lips disapprovingly before I even made it to the kitchen table.

"Whatever you've got to say, can you say it when I'm not trying to fix dinner?" she spat over her shoulder.

I had a choice to make.

The first one was the choice I'd been ticking. Giving her space and avoiding confrontation was what I
thought
I was doing by keeping my distance. I could turn around and park my ass back on the couch and after she had some time to bang some pans around and angrily toss some salad, we could ignore the elephant in the room and pretend like everything was okay. The other option was to say what I needed to say. Something that seemed so obvious, so necessary to move forward to a different place that I was kinda ashamed I hadn’t done it already.

I'm sorry.

Two words that could open the door for us to begin to heal. Two words, and we could be sisters, and not just two people who shared DNA and a mother who drove us crazy.

I paused at the dining room table, perching my fingertips on a stack of bills and spam. For all my strength and ability to stare down anything in the name of protecting her, saying those two words was harder than I thought it would be.

I grasped at straws, my eyes glossing over the ‘Falcon High Cheerleader’ screen printed on her sweatshirt. The pang of disgust that my mother had once carried pom poms through those halls but called Rose's time on the squad 'a waste of time' was still there, but I didn't cling to that. I was making it about me, and that didn't lead to anywhere healing.

"Remember when you found Mom's old varsity jacket in the shed and I taught you how to do a cartwheel?"

Even though she was right in front of me, still pissed as hell, my mind took me back to that day. I could feel the sun beating down on us, drenching me with sweat. I'd been curled up on the grass with a book when I heard Rose's squeal. My heart stopped until I saw that my premonition that if she didn't steer clear of the shed it would collapse on her
didn't
come true.

Rose was standing beside the old shed, her tiny, eight year old body swallowed whole by this letterman jacket. I'd rolled my eyes, ready to give her an earful as I pulled off the jacket our mother had claimed from some poor jock. I stopped when I got closer and saw the name ‘McLeod’ stitched on it.

The wonder that beamed from Rose, the sleeves trailing on the ground. The way my heart broke when she said she wanted to be a cheerleader "like mommy”...

There was a part of me that wanted to shake sense into her deluded head and tell her the last person she should ever emulate was our mother. Instead, I plastered a grin on my face and said, "Well, if you're gonna be a cheerleader, I should teach you a move or two."

Rose had given me a standing ovation when I modeled a cartwheel. When I was done demonstrating it a couple of times, I even tamped down the bitterness and lied when she asked if 'mommy' had been the one to teach me.

The only thing our mother had taught me was to expect nothing, so when I got nothing, I wouldn't be disappointed.

Rose had plenty of bitterness to spare, her angry voice pulling me from the past and dropping me back in the present.

"Remember the time Mom came to the football game to watch me cheer? Or showed up at a competition? Or showed me a few moves from her glory days?” She paused for a moment, then finished, “No? Me neither."

She snatched the pot from the stove and I gasped on the inside, picturing water scalding her because I was picking at the wound. Poking it until it bled.

My worry was unfounded because my sister handled herself, carefully pouring the noodles into the strainer. When she put aside the pot and turned to me, steam shrouding her face, I could have sworn I saw the tiniest bit of nostalgia rippling across her face.

"Yes, I remember," she said finally. "Why?"

I bit my lip, tears immediately rushing to my eyes. "I can't remember the last time I was just there for you like that. Not because Mom was on the warpath. Because you're my sister, and that's what sisters do."

Her mouth fell open slightly and the nostalgia I’d seen quickly turned to something else. "Sadie..."

Her voice broke and I bolted to her, wrapping her in my arms. We were bonded by a lot of things; superficial things like our deathly pale skin and eyes that you couldn't look away from, our love of singing along to the radio at the top of our lungs, and a steel will to make it, even if we had to go it alone. Apologies didn't come easy, but clinging to each other, we both said we were sorry over and over again until we were laughing and crying.

Rose wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve, flashing me the first megawatt smile I'd seen in months. “Clearly, I went overboard on the onions in the sauce."

"Clearly," I sniffled myself, taking in the spread so far. From the simmering pot of pasta sauce to garlic bread toasting in the oven and the Caesar salad that she'd already put in bowls, I was impressed. "From the looks of things, you've graduated from the Sadie McLeod Culinary Institute to Cordon Bleu."

She brought a hand solemnly to her chest. “Just so you know, I'd take your infamous fried bologna and cheese sandwiches over fancy schmancy any day."

"You're just buttering me up so I don't complain about your non-stop
Law and Order
marathons," I joked, picking up the two of the bowls of Caesar salad. I frowned when I did quick math and saw a third bowl of salad. I flicked my eyes to the right. Three plates waiting for the spaghetti. Three Dixie cups beside them. "Are you expecting company?"

Rose was suddenly very interested in stirring the sauce. "You know how you were just all lovey dovey and ‘Yay sisterhood!’? Remember that and don't get pissed at me, okay?"

I slowly lowered the salad bowls to the table, not sure where she was going with that request. "I don't understand."

My answer came in the form of two knocks at the door. I was too stunned by the fact that I had some unknown visitor to wrangle her for more information. It didn’t matter much because she bounded toward  the door, making herself right at home.

She popped on her toes and let out a squeal that was almost identical to the one she'd made years ago when she found our mother's hidden treasure.

Rose yanked the door open. "Come on in!"

The third bowl I was holding in my hand went  crashing to the floor when I locked eyes with our visitor.

Jackson Colt was standing in the doorway, clutching a bouquet of roses.

Rose made a 'ta-da!' motion with her hands. “Surprise!”

~

“W
e’ve gotta stop meeting like this.”

I knew Jackson was trying to lighten the mood. It was his thing, using humor to combat awkwardness.

I had no interest in it.

I was speechless, pissed, and feeling really awkward because the guy I’d been pointedly, painfully trying hard to not think about was standing in front of me. In my apartment. Holding roses like that’s all it took to make everything good between us.

The bowl seemed to still be out of sorts too, still rattling from its quick descent to the floor. I felt the lettuce glued to my bare feet, dressing oozing between my toes. Rose had dropped her little act and was biting her lip so hard I was sure she was gonna draw blood. And Jackson—well, Jackson was still clutching those roses and I couldn’t stand looking at them. Couldn’t stand the ‘awww’ that fluttered in my chest.

I tried to distract myself with the rest of him, but that didn’t do anything to calm me down. I thought he was enticing before, his naughty edge mixing with the sleek suit in a way that made my pulse race whether I wanted it to or not. He’d traded the suit for a plain white tee that was anything but plain on his muscular body. All the hard lines of his toned physique teased me beneath his shirt.