Page 38 of That Last Carolina Summer

“That’s not why I’m asking. Are you planning on going like that?” She indicated my stretched-out Ashley Hall T-shirt and old gym shorts.

“I have a clean T-shirt, and I’ll probably put on a pair of jeans. It’s outdoors, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Seriously, Phoebe. I wish that just once you’d have gone with Mother and me to a pageant so you’d have a clue about how to present yourself. It wasn’t just about looking good in a bathing suit and smiling pretty, you know. Wait, no you wouldn’t know because you always refused to go with us.”

I crossed my arms. “I always had better things to do. It wasn’t personal.”

“Yeah, it was. And that’s a shame because you might have learned something important.

Right now, the impression you’re giving is of a young woman with a lot of natural potential who is afraid to let people see her feminine side at the risk of not being taken seriously.

So instead, you look like a young woman who’s either given up or is totally fine with people overlooking her instead of sitting up and paying attention. ”

“I don’t need to impress anyone tonight,” I said, bristling.

“Good. The last person on earth you should be trying to impress is Liam Fitch. But there will be other people there, and you should at least try to make a good impression. If you don’t want to do it for yourself, do it for Mother.

She’d be mortified to know you went out in public looking like something the cat dragged in. ”

Despite myself, I felt the corner of my mouth lifting. It was something our mother had said a lot and always directed at me. My smile fell as I realized that I’d never hear her say that again, and I felt suddenly adrift.

“Well, if you’re going to do something with your hair, you’d better get busy. Although I don’t think there’s enough time left in the day to fix...” She waved her hand in front of me. “This. Come on,” she said. “Let me at least do something to your hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

She was walking in front of me so I couldn’t see her face, but I could picture her rolling her eyes. “Nothing that a curling iron can’t fix.”

We’d almost reached the house when I said, “Thank you for talking with Dale about the power of attorney stuff. It’s a big help. Although I think that meeting with Dale wasn’t as much of a hardship as you’d like me to think.”

“He’s just a friend—nothing more. It was nice to reconnect.”

“You consider him just a friend?”

“Really. He’s a nice guy and a welcome change from the usual jerks I meet at work.”

“Like the guy in the Camaro?”

She stopped walking and turned to face me. “Joe?” She shrugged. “He sort of fits my life right now, you know?”

“Not really.” I recalled the bruise I’d seen on her shoulder and the long-sleeved sweater, the two belatedly connecting in my thoughts. “Does he hurt you?”

Her face darkened. “We like to play rough, that’s all. And why the twenty questions? He’s just a guy.”

I stared at her, not recognizing my sister. “ Play rough? If he hits you, Addie, it’s never okay. The Addie I used to know would never allow that.”

She turned and continued walking toward the house. “Yeah, well, I’m not the same Addie I used to be.”

“What about Dale?”

“What about him? Why don’t you save your questions for tonight? He’s coming over later to chat and catch up, and we’re going to order takeout.”

“Maybe his niceness will win you over and you can drop the jerk. You’re too good for him.”

She gave me a doubtful look, then turned around and led us back to the house. “Hurry up. We don’t have a lot of time, and those dark circles under your eyes are going to take a while to cover up.”

She stopped again when we’d reached the porch steps. “Are you having those dreams again? Is that why you’re not sleeping?”

I considered lying again, as if speaking of them out loud would make them more real.

But maybe, like a secret, sharing them might take away their strength.

“Yes. But not every night. If I drink enough, I don’t remember them.

Sometimes, a flash of one will hit me and bring it back to me during the day when I’m going about my business, but that’s rare.

Last week, I dreamed about Liam’s receptionist falling off her bike before it happened. ”

“So, it’s like before?” Addie asked. “It’s something that hasn’t happened yet?”

“Pretty much.” I thought of the car on the bridge, and how I still wasn’t sure if the event was in the past or the future, or who the woman swimming to the surface was or the identity of the driver.

I needed to tell someone, but the fear it evoked crept up my throat like an invasive ivy to strangle me. To remember it was to relive it.

Addie waited for me to say more, her uncanny ability to read me like that of a twin from a shared womb. It’s why I never played hide-and-go-seek when she was a participant: she always knew where I was hiding.

When I didn’t say anything else, she pulled open the screen door. “Well, then. We need to make sure we keep the fridge stocked with beer.”

I followed her into the house, feeling the heavy nudge of the dream settling into my head like a storm cloud, waiting for lightning to strike.