Strike a Pose (Blame It on Fame #1)

21. Willow

Chapter 21

Willow

T he past few days have been chock full of eating, sleeping, and lazing—the perfect vacation. Tonight is our last night, and our parents have reserved the private back room of the island’s nicest restaurant for us to dine in before parting ways tomorrow. Before we head out, Aspen, Maple, and I are cramming in some extra time together by all getting ready for dinner in my room.

“Willow, you never wear the color cantaloupe, right?” I hear Aspen ask from behind me, sorting through a stack of hanging dresses.

I scoff. “God, no. It makes me look sick.”

She sighs, showing me a long, strappy, pastel orange dress. “I knew it—we have the same coloring and I think it looks awful on me. I don’t know why my stylist put this in here.”

“That would look great in black,” Maple offers.

“I know, it’s such a waste of a dress. Maybe Heena could wear it. It might look good on her.”

“If anyone could pull it off, it would be her,” I agree. “Have it shipped to the penthouse. She can at least look at it.”

“Sure,” Aspen says, setting it aside. “My only other option for tonight is thi s navy one.” She pulls out another long dress. It’s a very simple halter cut but has a low back featuring a thin accent tie.

“I like that.” I nod. “It’s sort of similar to mine.” I look down at my floor-length baby blue satin dress. Like Aspen’s, it’s a halter-top style with an open back but with a plunging V-neck meeting at the top in a neck scarf á-la To Catch a Thief. “What are you wearing, Syrup?”

“This,” Maple answers, holding up an off-the-shoulder black mini-dress paired with long black gloves. I should have known. Maple’s wardrobe is 90% black.

“I love that, especially the gloves,” I respond. “Please tell me you’re doing a dark lip and really leaning into the whole Morticia Addams thing.”

“Duh,” she responds.

Satisfied, I turn back to face the mirror to resume doing my makeup.

“I’m so happy we’re all together,” Aspen says. “I really needed this.”

“I’m glad we are too,” Maple agrees with uncharacteristic earnestness.

“Me too. I love you guys, you know that?” I say.

“We love you back,” Aspen answers, slipping into her dress.

“I wish we could all be together more often,” Maple laments.

“Me too,” I say, tactfully applying fine glitter to the inner corners of my eyes. “But it just makes the time we are together all the more special, right?”

Maple sniffs. “Yeah.”

“Are you crying ?” Aspen asks, shocked.

“No, there’s something in my eye,” Maple defends, dabbing her eye with the limp glove hanging in her hand .

“Oh my God, Maple, you’re totally crying,” I say. “I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“Shut up,” she says, her voice breaking even though she’s smiling. “I’m just so…happy. I missed you guys. It gets lonely around the house without you.”

“Aw, come here, you big softie,” I say, getting up and pulling her into a hug. “You too, Aspen,” I say, extending an arm for her. “We’re all only a phone call away,” I assert into their hair.

“And we’ll all be together again soon,” Aspen adds. “I don’t know when, but we’ll make it happen.”

“Sisters from cradle to grave,” Maple adds, squeezing us once before separating. “Now get off me before you smear your makeup on my dress.”

We finish getting ready quickly and hustle to meet our parents at the restaurant on time. The main dining space is dim and romantically lit, with real candles flickering in wall sconces. The walls are painted a midnight blue color and decorated with paintings of sailboats and seascapes. The hostess leads my sisters and me to the private room in the back, where my parents are waiting for us. We also have our own private waiter, who is incredibly attentive and punctual. The four-course meal is so rich and delicious that by the end of it, I’m leaning back in my chair, well on my way to a food coma.

My mom clears her throat as the waiter takes our dessert plates. “So, girls,” she begins in a tone serious enough to make me sit up straight again. “There’s…something we want to tell you.”

The waiter exits quietly with the plates, giving us privacy.

Maple groans. “Please tell me you’re not having a baby.”

“What?” My dad furrows his eyebrows. “No—No, we’re not.”

“I—” my mom starts. My dad rests his hand over hers on the table, seemingly giving her the strength to continue. “Before I say anyth ing,” she begins again, eyeing all of us in turn. “I want you to know that everything will be okay and that we both love you very, very much.”

It feels like the temperature drops forty degrees. Just seconds ago, I was half-asleep, and now I’m well-awake, a shiver running down my back.

“I’ve been diagnosed with stage three lung cancer,” she finally blurts out.

And suddenly, I don’t feel like I’m in my body at all anymore. Time freezes, and I’m an outsider looking in. My mom’s mouth moves again, but I don’t process anything she says. She looks at me expectantly.

“Willow,” she says, loudly enough that I know it wasn’t her first time saying it.

I shake my head. “You what ?”