Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 157273 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157273 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
“What kind of person does that?” She crinkled her freckled nose.
“Fear does strange things to people. What kind of ten-year-old weaponizes Bach on a Saturday morning?”
“It was Stravinsky.” She lifted her brows and gave me the same look Caroline just had. June may have been adopted, but she’d definitely inherited my sister’s no-fucks-given attitude. “From The Rite of Spring. Just because I’m not allowed to take class doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to watch ballet.” She folded her arms across her chest. “It’s a stupid rule, anyway.”
“It’s still her rule.” Juniper was right. My sister’s no-ballet rule made about as much sense as my parents grounding Gavin and me as teens when we had a perfectly good ladder outside our shared room, but I wasn’t the parent here. “Did you text Uncle Gavin?” I changed the subject as June took a seat on one of the two barstools at the island.
“No. I’m not supposed to have a phone.” She bit back a smile and feigned innocence.
“Like Gavin doesn’t know?” I moved the bananas and then unloaded the contraband from the bags. With Caroline working her ass off at the café, the phone seemed the responsible choice to make when it came to Juniper. Not to mention that Gavin would usually pick up for our niece, even if he was ducking Caroline or me.
Juniper’s brown eyes lit up. “Pop-Tarts!” She reached for the variety pack, then clutched it to her chest. “You’re my favorite.”
“Uh-huh.” I ruffled her hair and put the rest of the snack food in the cabinet behind the mixer Caroline never used. Maybe it made me a shit brother to be my niece’s sugar dealer, but I was a hell of an uncle, and I was okay with that.
She ripped open the foil and stuffed half a strawberry pastry into her mouth. “Uncle Hudson?”
“Hmm?” I threw the reusable bags onto the stack on top of the refrigerator and braced for impact, leaning back against the honey-oak cabinetry.
“If there was a way to change Mom’s mind about taking ballet, would you help?” She broke off a small, measured piece of the second pastry, a clear giveaway that she was up to something.
“There isn’t.” I shook my head.
She scrunched her forehead. “But if there was, you’d help me, wouldn’t you? The new session starts in less than two weeks.”
“In the interest of us not going round and round about this, sure. If there was a way to change your mom’s mind, I’d help.” Easy promise, knowing there was zero chance. Juniper had a better chance of talking her mom into a tattoo than stepping foot in a studio.
“Pinkie promise.” She stuck out her hand, curling every digit but her pinkie.
I reached forward and hooked my pinkie with hers in our sacred ritual. “Pinkie promise.”
She grinned, her dimple popping on her left upper cheek, and the hairs on the back of my neck lifted. “See”—she popped a small piece of Pop-Tart into her mouth and chewed—“I think she hates ballet because she hates the ballerinas.”
“I think that’s a logical assessment.” I nodded.
“Because she grew up waiting on all the rich tourists at the café.” She devoured another frosting-laden piece.
“Something like that.” I swiveled toward the fridge and pulled out the jug of orange juice. “Have you thought about taking tap? Or jazz?”
“But you don’t hate ballerinas,” she interrupted, ignoring my attempt to change the subject as I poured us two glasses of juice and put the jug away.
“Correct.” That ache in my chest constricted. There had to be a way out of this conversation. I gulped down half the glass of juice like it would wash away the memories that had nipped at my heels relentlessly since I’d come back to Haven Cove.
“Because you loved one,” June whispered.
My stomach heaved and I nearly spat out the juice, barely managing to swallow it before painting the kitchen orange. “I’m sorry?” The glass clinked on the linoleum as I set it down.
“You loved Alessandra Rousseau,” June declared, throwing around the words I’d never dared to voice as a teenager like they were as common as the seashells around here. “Or at least you really liked her.”
What the hell? Speechless. My ten-year-old niece had rendered me completely fucking speechless. How did she . . . ? Caroline didn’t know—she would have raised hell. Not even Mom and Dad caught on. Only Gavin knew about those two summers.
I was going to fucking kill him.
“And that means she can’t be spoiled or entitled,” June continued, her nostrils flaring like she could smell her victory.
Allie was both of those things, and somehow neither. She was the ultimate oxymoron, self-centered yet selfless for her sisters, spoiled yet kind, driven yet reluctant, an open book of emotion on the stage and an impossible puzzle when off it.
At least she had been at seventeen.