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I ignored her and zipped my suitcaseshut. “There. One bag. Nobody can complain that I took toomuch.”
A knock on the door drew my attention.Through the blinds, I saw the tanned forearm that indicated myfather was back from the golf course.
“It’s open,” Icalled.
“Hey, Sport,” Dad said as hestepped in. He noticed Sarrah on the couch. “And Sarrah. Am Iinterrupting?”
“I’m helping Charlottewinnow down her wardrobe choices, Mr. Holmes,” Sarrah said in hermost kiss-ass voice.
“Good. There’s a weightlimit on planes. We don’t want to crash.” Dad chuckled at his ownremark.
I groaned inwardly and patted mysuitcase. “This is the only one I’m taking.”
Dad’s expression took on a worriedcast. “Are you feeling okay?”
I shook my head in annoyance as hebroke into a grin. “Does your sense of humor wear off slowly afterbecoming a dad or do they have to surgically remove it at thehospital and replace it with a new, worse one?”
Sarrah’s phone alarm went off, and sheshot up from the sofa. “That’s my time. Do you need me to pick upanything for you after work?”
“We won’t even be here,” Iexplained with a wave of my hand. “Our flight leaves atsix.”
“And it’s wheels up atfour-thirty,” Dad added.
“Wheels up refers to theplane, not the taxi taking us to the airport,” I corrected him. Iput my arms out for a hug from Sarrah. Yeah, I was only going awayfor a long weekend, but I didn’t know how much we’d get to textwhile I was busy with wedding stuff, and we saw each other almostevery single day. When she released me from her crushing squeeze, Idownplayed my separation anxiety. “Chill. I’m going to a wedding.Not my own funeral.”
“Plane crashes happen.”Leave it to Sarrah to say exactly the wrong thing to a nervousflyer. “Not yours, obviously. Because you’re never going todie.”
“Neither of us are,” Iagreed. “Ever.”
“Okay, I’m holding you tothat,” she said and headed for the door.
When it closed behind her, Dad got tothe point of his rare visit to his own guesthouse. “I heard aboutthe interview.”
I cringed a little. “Yeah, not myfinest hour.”
“The job market is toughright now.” Dad always had some kind of excuse as to why theproblem wasn’t me. “You’ll get ’em next time.”
I knew he didn’t mean to soundcondescending. “Next time what? Next time I get told I’m not ‘theright fit’ for telemarketing? That one really hurts.”
Dad’s graying eyebrows rose in anexpression I’ve seen on my own face an uncomfortable number oftimes. “Does it, though? I think most people would feel like theydodged a bullet missing out on a job in a dyingindustry.”
While my father and I shared the samecoppery-blond hair and bright blue eyes, I had my mother’sporcelain skin and deep sense of cynicism.
“I know this weekend isgoing to be hard for you,” he began. “People will ask you whatyou’re doing, and you’re going to want to say, ‘nothing, I’m afailure.’”
“You don’t know what I’mgoing to say,” I grumbled, because absolutely, that was what Iwould say.
“Your brother is fourteenyears ahead of you. He’s had a lot more time to build the life hehas. You have to stop measuring yourself against him.” Dad’s eyeswere kind, but his words ignored the core problem. I would alwaysmeasure myself against my brother.
He was the only reason I was born inthe first place.
When Scott had been twelve, he wasdiagnosed with leukemia. His best hope had been a bone marrowtransplant, but neither of our parents had been a good enoughmatch. Mom and Dad took a chance that a sibling might be,though.
And then I hadn’t been.
Obviously, Scott hadsurvived. He’d gotten his bone marrow transplant from the registry,and I’d gotten to enter this world a crushing disappointment. Myparents had tried to reassure me throughout my entire life thatthey wouldn’t have had me if they hadn’t wanted another baby, thatthey loved me even though I didn’t work as spare parts, thateventhinkingabout myself as spare parts was absurd. But it had beenimpossible for me to shake the conviction that if my brother hadn’tgotten cancer, I wouldn’t be around.
Failing at everything else? Didn’t makethe situation any better.