She just didn’t feel like it these days. Brianna had grown sullen and withdrawn—she was twelve, so it wasn’t the world’s biggest surprise. But the thing was, Juliet hadn’t done that with her mother. She adored her mother, every day, every year. Sloane was right behind Brianna at ten . . . Would she stop talking to her, too? Oliver had been a little . . . distant, maybe. And if there was one thing Juliet couldn’t stand, it was distant. Her father had been that way (except with Sadie). And Dad had been especially distant with Mom.
Of course things stopped being hot and heavy after fifteen years of marriage. You couldn’t keep that shit up, no matter how hard you tried, how many thongs you bought. Things became expected and comfortable, and that was good, wasn’t it? Even if she tried really hard to be spontaneous and exciting, she and Ollie knew each other inside and out. Would she find herself walking her parents’ path, barely speaking, being invisible to the other?
This seeping dread, this flight response . . . why did it feel so real? Was she a fake somehow, in both work and life? Why was Arwen so terrifying when she was perfectly . . . fine?
Shit, shit, shit. This was what happened. One little crack, and the whole building comes down.
Juliet stood. Her legs felt shaky, and her hair looked greasy. There were circles under her eyes.
That faint would’ve been welcome. A little nap.
Instead, she went to her computer and Googled “how to become a smoke jumper in Montana.” Very conveniently, the U.S. Forest Service was hiring. So she would need a little experience fighting wildland fires. She’d get it. Juliet was in great shape. She liked heights and fires (though more of the bonfire/fireplace type). She was brave—always the first to jump in the water, or try waterskiing or leap off the platform while zip-lining. She was an adrenaline junkie who had just emerged from hiding in her closet.
The idea of being far, far away doing heroic things had such pull, such promise. Her sister Sadie would probably do it. Move to Montana, be handed a job, meet a cowboy who happened to also be a billionaire and spend the rest of her life traveling and getting massages on various beaches, because that’s how life unfolded for Sadie. Juliet worked and planned for everything; Sadie skipped off to New York City, doing things in the most irresponsible, unplanned, carefree way possible. No money? No problem. I can waitress! I can work in a tattoo parlor! I’m an artist, you see. Things are different for us, since we’re pure and superior. No career? No worries! Something will come along. In the meantime, look at this hovel I’m living in after Mom and Dad remortgaged the house to put me through college!
In typical Sadie fashion, she got a cute little job at a cute little school and somehow started earning money on paintings that allowed her to buy a cute little apartment and then found a cute wealthy boyfriend. Sadie never had to work for a thing. Juliet worked every fucking day, every fucking minute. Did people think Oliver just saw her and fell in love? Oh, no. She had to work for him. The guy was absolutely wonderful—handsome and charming and smart and kind and funny—and everyone had wanted him. Juliet had taken one look at him and thought, Game on. She’d had to earn him, which she had.
All work, all the time, every part of her life. Me time? Please. Juliet brought work with her on every weekend away, every vacation. She took a bubble bath for effect, only when Oliver had come home from a trip, and she’d run the bath and sprinkle flower petals in and light candles the way no one ever did in real life, and it was all for seduction, to say, “Sure, we’ve been married for fifteen years, but I’m still a voracious sex beast, you betcha!” Long walks on the weekends or after school were to incorporate health and outdoor time into the girls’ lives, even if Juliet’s brain was fogged with all the work she had to do to earn that fat salary, how late she’d have to work to make up the time spent walking, how to help Sloane catch up on reading and make gluten-free, peanut-free, dairy-free cupcakes for Sloane’s class and later have sex with Oliver so he wouldn’t forget he loved her, or take Mom out to dinner because she deserved it, or plant flowers in the front yard because Oliver’s British mother loved gardens and had once said a house without a garden is a house without a soul, and then what about the mentorship thing she’d promised to do for Yale, and the workshop (not keynote) she was giving at the annual American Institute of Architects conference on risk management (not the sexy one Arwen was doing on “breaking boundaries”) and right, their cleaning lady had moved and Juliet hadn’t found another one yet so she had to clean the house because she liked things tidy and couldn’t relax if things were messy.
“Shit,” she said aloud. “Next time, faint, you idiot.”
She left her closet, intending to take a shower, but there was her phone, buzzing on the desk of her study.
Mom. She always took calls from Mom.
“Sweetheart,” her mother began, “I’m real sorry to have to tell you this, but your dad’s been in an accident, and he’s hurt. Real bad. I’m on my way to Lawrence and Memorial.”
Her heart thudded hard, rolling in a sickening wave—once, twice, three times.
“I’m on my way,” Juliet said, her voice firm. “Hang in there, Mom, I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Smoke jumper. She would make a great smoke jumper.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sadie
In the blur of terror that followed Juliet’s call, I rented a car and drove through the snarl of traffic between Manhattan and Connecticut, doing eighty miles an hour when I could, slamming on the brakes when I saw taillights. Even though I’d tried calling Alexander as soon as I hung up with Jules, he wasn’t answering. He had a habit of keeping the phone off while he drove, which was not at all convenient at this moment. After leaving six messages, I called Carter and told him instead, hiccuping with sobs.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he said. “Good luck. I’m here for anything you need. If you want me to call Sister Mary or anything, if you need me to water your plants, let me know.”
The whole way there, tears streaked down my cheeks and I had to fight not to break down. My dad had been my idol growing up—always encouraging, upbeat and fun . . . not to mention the parent who actually liked me. He taught me to play poker and swim and never said art school was a bad idea. He told me I was pretty and never criticized my clothes, even in my goth stage. He came to visit me once a month in the city, and still held my hand when we were crossing the street. He couldn’t be dying. Not without me there.
All my life, there’d been a clear division in the family. Juliet “Perfection from Conception” was Mom’s; I, the lesser child in just about every measurable aspect except artistic ability, was Dad’s. He never seemed to think he got the short end of the stick.
“Please don’t die, please don’t die,” I chanted under my breath. Who else would root for me the way he did? Who else would be so . . . so delighted at every turn of my life? It seemed that all my childhood, Mom had lectured on everything from posture to how to clean the bathroom to grades, and Dad had been right behind her, sweeping away the criticism with a grin or a wink and maybe a trip to the ice cream parlor. Everything he did let me know I was loved, whereas everything Mom did let me know I was wrong.