I sucked in a quick breath. My hands hovered over the keyboard, paralyzed. Why was I nervous? She was the one who needed to be apologizing to me. I willed my fingers to move and managed to slowly open my email and type [email protected] into the “to” field. The cursor winked at me, taunting.
Despite being supportive and witty and so many other wonderful things, Ashlyn was a grudge holder. More than once, I’d seen her go at least a month without speaking to her father. Those were the days she’d spend more time at my house than hers. In addition to our trademark dance parties, we would read celebrity gossip magazines, play gin rummy, and practice braiding each other’s hair into crowns and fishtails. A good diversion for both of us, really. But she would never give in and talk to him until her mom paved the way for her, smoothing things over with her dad. I knew Ashlyn wasn’t suddenly going to change her stripes just because it was me she was angry with.
I told myself that there were two ways I could approach this. I could just go for it, put myself out there and write a huge long confession, explaining what happened that fateful day from my point of view, telling her exactly why I couldn’t lie to defend her and Chase, and beg her to move on. But it probably wasn’t the time for that. If I unloaded while she was furious, it would guarantee me an empty inbox, probably forever, and our friendship would go from virtually nonexistent to dead on arrival.
I’d have to be subtle. Casual. I wouldn’t mention the whole grand larceny business at all. Maybe a few jokes and jabs would get the ball rolling. I started crafting a letter, each key cool and hard under my fingers.
Hi Ashlyn,
Would she get stabby if I was formal, or would she think I was being contrite? I took off the lyn.
Hi Ash,
I heard through the grapevine that you enrolled at Blue Valley. I checked out the website, and it pretty much looks too good to be true. Do you ride to class on horseback? I bet they feed you nothing but ambrosia and Perrier too. We miss your face around here.
We or I? I left it we.
You aren’t missing anything at all at Henderson. Three more finals and then hello, junior year.
Remember the logo I was working on for Abby Gold’s blog? I finished it, and it turned out pretty well. Abby thinks I should make this a regular thing and launch my own business. What do you think?
Maybe she’d bite and give me her opinion. I did actually want it—she was pretty savvy when it came to people-oriented things, Chase excepted. I really just hoped she’d write me back.
Anywho, hope things are going okay. Do you have a roommate? If yes, if she annoys you, you can always freeze her bra or something. My intel says that’s the kind of prank people pull at all-girls schools.
Tatum
Or should I sign it Tate? Ashlyn was the only person who ever called me that. Again with the formal name or not. I looked back up at the top of the email. I supposed they should match, so I changed it.
Tate
Oh crud. What about a closing? Did I say Love or Sincerely? Warmly? Yours truly? The cheeky but effective Cheers? Or, my least favorite of all because it was so sadly insincere and fake, Best? Why was this so difficult? I closed my eyes for a moment, the pores on my hands prickling. I googled “how to close a letter,” determined to find exactly the right way to show my friend that I missed her and wanted to talk with her, but that I wasn’t going to apologize because I’d done nothing wrong and acted out of self-preservation. Google would know the right answer.
I read the almighty Wikipedia page titled “Valedictions”—apparently, that was the fancy word that meant how to say goodbye—and laughed at some of the phrases people used to write in old letters. “Yours aye”—which meant “yours always”—made me think of a pirate. The list of more casual closings suggested TTFN. That was too childish. Yours hopefully? Plain desperate, and too obvious. Couldn’t give it all away. And then I saw it. Be well. It made the most sense, as I was innocently hoping she was settling in at her new school. It wasn’t reciprocal. With a simple Be well, I was offering my personal goodwill without asking for anything in return. And it wasn’t too stiff or laid-back. Just right, as Goldilocks would say.
Be well,
Tate
Before I could change my swirling mind again, I pressed send. I felt a little lighter than I had when I’d started writing, but half a second later the anxiety of waiting for a response overtook me, and my hands began shaking. I slammed the laptop shut, rattling my desk in the process, and flung myself onto the bed.
Chapter 3
The Tuesday after my dad left for the wilds of Botswana, Blanche arrived.
Belén had anxiously fixed up the basement guest room in a way I could only assume she hoped would please her mother, moving the knickknacks from place to place before settling them and beating the wrinkles out of the throw pillows. She’d even put up a gorgeous poncho—all cream, red, and navy—on the wall like a tapestry. I’d never seen her go to so much trouble to make sure something was just right.
When I was checking out her handiwork, I reached out to the poncho, only to admire it. Belén moved my hand away.
“Tatum. Please do not touch that. You’ll get something on it.” She scowled and walked out of the room.
I held my hands up in front of my face to inspect them. Not a speck of grease, ink, or any other errant substance to mess up her precious decoration. The woman really needed to pay attention more often. I worked in pixels, not paints.
When Blanche showed up, via a yellow taxi driven from the airport, Belén instructed Tilly and me to stand side by side on the short walk leading up to the front door.
“Stand up straight, girls.” Belén smoothed down her black pencil skirt and locked her knees, the heels of her three-inch patent leather pumps cemented together. I hoped she wouldn’t fall over. Or maybe I hoped she would. Tilly, dressed almost identically to her mother, squared her shoulders and stuck her chin out. She stood beside me, just close enough to give the impression we were united, but definitely far enough away that we weren’t touching.
I think that if Tilly and I were not forced to be family, we might have been friends. And by friends, I mean people who exchange words sometimes, perhaps ask how the other is doing, show concern when something is going downhill. Instead, as stepsisters, we were mostly two ships passing in the night.