Page 22 of The Holiday Makeover

Rory gave me a pressed-lip smile that said, We’re toast. I recognized it instantly. We’d gotten into plenty of trouble together when we were younger—everything from tying a rope to the bumper of my first truck and pulling our friends on a sled across a snowy field, to getting caught swimming in the lake in nothing but our underwear with half our senior class.

For a moment I got caught in the memory of that night at the lake, and of Rory’s half-naked body, beautiful even then, moving toward me in the water. I missed those days.

But every time we got busted, Rory would give me the smirk she was wearing now. The one that said resistance was futile.

Except this wasn’t just a matter of us being grounded for a week.

As if she could read my thoughts—and sometimes I honestly believed she could—her smirk shifted into more of a grimace. Her shoulders rolled back, then down, as she stood a little taller. She was bracing for something. But what?

“Veronica,” she said, her voice wavering between brave and trembling. “I really appreciate the offer to help. But I wonder if it would be a good idea.” She shot me a quick, apologetic glance. One that meant, I’m sorry, but it had to be said.

She didn’t need to be sorry. I couldn’t believe that after everything we’d been through, she was still willing to stick up for me. Protect me.

“Why would you say that?” Mom asked. But her tone said she knew exactly why—she just didn’t want to admit it.

That was our family’s unspoken motto: Ignore the uncomfortable truths and eventually they’ll disappear. Except they never did. They only got worse.

My parents had to know why I never came home. Why I hardly reached out. Why I hadn’t rushed over as soon as I got into town.

“I think you know why, Veronica,” Rory said gently, but it landed like an anvil. Even George’s tail—which wagged even when he slept—froze.

Mom’s head ping-ponged between Rory and me, her watery eyes pleading with Rory not to say it out loud.

For a moment, I almost let it go. It would’ve been easier to keep pretending everything was fine. Would anything change anyway?

But nothing was okay. Coco was gone. Rory felt more out of reach than ever. My career was probably circling the drain. And I realized I didn’t have it in me to keep pretending. Maybe that’s what had gotten me here in the first place.

I was just as skilled as my parents at ignoring the truth staring me down. Hadn’t I known, deep down, that Rory was tired of the spotlight? That she didn’t want what I considered the next step in our careers? That she was never going to choose Hollywood? That I’d made her doubt my feelings?

If I was being honest with myself, the answer was that I knew all those things. But it was easier to pretend I didn’t. Easier to believe Rory would keep choosing me because that’s what she’d always done.

But she could never really believe that I’d chosen her.

And then . . . I didn’t.

Yet there she was, defending me—saying the things I should’ve been man enough to say. More importantly, man enough to do. Talk was cheap at this point.

So I added more fuel to the dumpster fire my life was turning into.

“Mom, I love you, but I don’t have it in me to pretend my life is perfect and I’m a superstar. Or worse, listen to one of Dad’s TED talks about which areas of my life need improvement. I’m here to help Rory fulfill Coco’s last wishes. She’s my focus.”

Both women stared at me, apparently in shock and at a loss for words. Rory’s beautiful face hinted at incredulity. My mom’s teetered somewhere between a nervous breakdown and How can I spin this so it doesn’t devastate me?

I wasn’t sure if Rory was more surprised that I’d said she was my focus or that I’d finally stood up to my mom. Probably both, equally.

Mom composed herself and did what we Ryders were good at—she plastered on a fake smile and pretended.

“I’m sure you’re just tired and emotional after Coco’s death. I know how much you loved her. We would still love to help with the house and party, and for you to come to Thanksgiving. We’ll eat at four. Come hungry.”

She turned around as fast as she could, threw open the door, and let a blast of cold air rush in before she fled like her life depended on it.

And maybe it did.

Maybe she needed the facade.

Been there. I was afraid I was still there.

As soon as the door closed, Rory said, “Uh, well . . . wow.”