Chapter Three

Laurel's POV

"Laurel Whitaker, come in here for a minute."

Early on October fourth, before I headed out to the camera store, Dad called me into his study.

He almost never used my full name.

He was sitting behind his desk with a few sheets of paper spread out in front of him. I glanced at them. They looked like bank statements.

"Why'd you only send six hundred this month?"

Last month, I'd sent sixteen hundred. This month I had a credit card bill to pay, and after my other expenses, six hundred was all I could squeeze out of my paycheck.

On top of that, covering Vivian's camera had taken a big bite out of my already thin savings.

"Money was a little tight this month."

"Tight how?" Dad frowned and tapped his knuckles on the desk twice. "You live alone. How much could you possibly spend? Doesn't your company pay half your rent?"

The company did cover half. But the other half still came to five hundred dollars.

Food, my commute, all the little everyday costs added up. I took home a little over twenty-eight hundred a month, and after I sent my share home, there was barely anything left.

I'd never once walked them through those numbers.

In this family, my money belonged to everyone. Vivian's money belonged to Vivian.

"I'll make up the difference next month."

"One more thing. Your sister wants to sign up for a photography course, and it's not cheap. Your mom thinks you should chip in."

Chip in.

Every time they said that, a number came right after it, and my bank account shrank a little more.

"How much?"

"A thousand. Your sister will cover the other half."

A thousand dollars.

The camera was thirty-six hundred, the course was two thousand. That was fifty-six hundred total, and three thousand of it was coming out of my pocket.

Vivian made eight hundred more a month than I did, and they knew it.

"Dad, she makes more than I do."

He took off his reading glasses and looked at me. I'd seen that look of disappointment more times than I could count. It meant I was making a big deal out of nothing again.

"Your sister's got a lot more going on, and you hardly spend a dime. You two are sisters. Why are you keeping score?"

I barely spent anything because I didn't buy new clothes or skincare, didn't take trips, and didn't eat out.

Every penny I pinched ended up being spent on someone else.

"Okay."

I turned and walked out of the study.

I'd only made it to the doorway when I heard Dad call her.

"Vivian, your sister said she'll help pay for your course. Just ask her for the money."

I could faintly hear her voice on the other end, and she was laughing. "I knew it. Laurel never says no."

Never says no. Always easy to push around.

That afternoon, I went to the grocery store to pick up travel-size toiletries.

When I passed the snack aisle, I stopped without thinking. Vivian loved sour gummies, and my mind was already running through what everyone at home might want.

But this time, I just stood in front of the shelf for a while.

In the end, I picked up a bag of the pretzels I liked, hesitated for a second, then put it in my basket.

Twenty-three years old, and it was the first time I'd ever picked out a snack at the store just for me.

When I got home, Mom was watching TV with a few photos Vivian had taken on her new camera spread across the coffee table.

She waved me over. "Come look at these. Your sister's so talented."

They were shots of fall colors in a park, and honestly, the composition was good.

"I'm getting this one framed for the living room." She pointed at one of them. Sunlight fell across a narrow path lined with golden trees on both sides.

On that living room wall hung a family photo from five years ago. I was standing at the very edge, and half of me was cut off by the frame.

Mom said the framing shop had cropped it wrong by accident.

I'd believed that for five years.

But looking at it now, all I could see was how little room they'd left for me in that picture, and how easily they'd all been fine with it.

"They're really nice," I said.

Mom was in a great mood and kept flipping through them one by one. Then her hand stopped on one.

It was a shot of me from behind, standing in the kitchen cutting fruit. I had no idea when Vivian had taken it.

"Delete this one. The background's too messy."

The background wasn't messy at all.

What made it messy to her was that I was in it.

After dinner, Vivian pulled Mom onto the couch so they could check out the photography course together.

"This instructor's shot for some of the biggest magazines out there. Mom, look at his work. It's insane."

"If you love it, sign up, sweetheart. Don't worry about the money."

When Mom said that, she didn't look my way once.

And yet that money was coming straight out of my account.

Out on the balcony, Dad was smoking and playing a stock market video out loud.

Inside, Mom and Vivian had their heads together over the course, with no room for a third person.

I sat next to the dirty dishes nobody had cleared yet and finished the whole bag of pretzels by myself.

The pretzels were salty. So were the tears I couldn't hold back.

By ten o'clock, everyone had gone to their rooms.

I locked my door and dragged my twenty-inch suitcase out from the very back of the closet.

I packed my ID, my bank cards, two changes of clothes, my laptop, and an external hard drive with all my work files on it.

I'd gotten my passport three months ago. Back then, I still hadn't made up my mind.

Now, there was nothing left to hesitate over.

The zipper barely made a sound, but I held my breath anyway.

Next door, light was still showing under Vivian's door. She was probably editing photos.

My phone buzzed. It was a text from her.

"When are you sending the course money? The deposit's due by the 10th."

By the tenth, I'd already be in Sweden.

I texted back, "I'll get to it in a couple days."

She replied "OK" within seconds.

Sure. Everything was just fine.

I lay down and stared at the ceiling.

My flight was at 2:15 tomorrow afternoon. Nobody would be home in the morning. Vivian was meeting up with some college friends, and Mom and Dad were dropping off a gift at my uncle's place and staying there for lunch.

This was the last time I'd ever lie in this bed.

Fifteen years ago, eight-year-old me had lain right here and cried myself to sleep.

In the middle of that night, Vivian snuck in and left a wrapped caramel by my pillow.

When I found it the next morning, I thought it meant she felt bad for me.

But now that I thought about it, that was probably the one time twelve-year-old Vivian felt like she'd done something wrong.

Whatever that caramel was supposed to make up for, it came fifteen years too late.