They Both Wanted Me Every Day — Now They Both Want Sunday to Last Longer Without Me Chapter 04

They Both Wanted Me Every Day — Now They Both Want Sunday to Last Longer Without Me Chapter 04

Someone shoved the cake knife back into my hand. “Come on, Miss Vance. Everyone’s waiting.”

I didn’t catch it in time. The knife hit the floor.

Nora bent to pick it up—and sliced her fingertip on the blade. She let out a soft gasp.

Ethan grabbed her hand immediately. “Who told you to touch that?”

He turned to me. “Lena. Apologize.”

I said, “I didn’t hand it to her.”

“She’s hurt.”

“So?”

Ethan’s voice dropped lower. “You know she can’t stand pain.”

I looked at the thin red line on Nora’s finger. Then at my own waist, where the dress boning had rubbed my skin raw.

I said, “I’m hurting too.”

He didn’t hear me.

Nora pulled free from him and came to hug me. “Lena, it’s fine. It was my fault.”

I smelled the faint scent of lemon on her. Not perfume. The lemon bars I’d thrown away yesterday.

My arms stayed at my sides. I didn’t hug back.

She whispered in my ear, “Don’t make this hard for Ethan.”

I asked her, “You care about him being uncomfortable—but not about me hurting?”

Nora’s shoulders stiffened for a second, then softened. She pulled back, tears sliding down her face.

“Lena… you’ve changed.”

From the crowd, someone gasped. “Nora’s got the patience of a saint.”

“Honestly? I’d have dropped this princess a long time ago.”

Ethan took Nora away to get her finger bandaged.

My birthday party, before I’d even made a wish, and I was the only one left.

I stood under the lights and heard a server whisper, “Should we still cut the cake?”

I said, “Cut it.”

He brought a new knife.

I cut the white-dress fondant figure in half.

…

After that night, Ethan didn’t come find me for three days. Neither did Nora.

I moved out of the Vance house and into the old Sycamore House on the south side. It had been my grandmother’s.

A magnolia tree grew in the yard. Inside were stacks of old fabric and yellowed embroidery patterns.

As a kid, Grandma Eleanor used to make me sit at the cross-stitch hoop for hours. When she was dying, she held my hand and said, “Lena, don’t be so quick to show people what you’ve got. When the ground’s shaky, you keep your cards close.”

I didn’t understand then.

I understand a little more now.

…

On moving day, Frank carried the storage trunk inside. The papers inside rustled as it hit the floor.

Frank asked, “Miss, should we organize these old things?”

I said, “No.”

My phone rang.

Ethan. First words out of his mouth, “Are you done throwing your tantrum?”

I pushed the window open. Wind blew in, carrying the smell of magnolia blossoms.

“No.”

He paused. “Nora didn’t mean it. She’s been beating herself up about it—can’t even focus on her atelier orders.”

“Then you handle it for her.”

“Lena.”

“What do you want?”

“Why are you so prickly all of a sudden?”

I picked up an old thimble off the desk. It was Grandma Eleanor’s—the edges worn smooth from years of use.

“Maybe because you two made me soft for too long.”

Ethan took a breath. “Come to the club tonight. Nora landed a big commission for a formal gown. She needs you to show up and say a few words.”

I asked, “What am I supposed to say?”

“This client likes the Vance family name. Just show your face. That’s all.”

I laughed. “So you’re not here to make up with me. You’re here to use me.”

He said, “Don’t make it sound so ugly. You know how hard Nora’s worked for her atelier.”

Of course I knew.

Her first sewing machine? I bought it.

Her first batch of fabric? I found a supplier.

The sign above her atelier door? I hung it myself.

I said, “I’m not coming.”

Ethan’s voice went cold. “Don’t regret this.”

He hung up.

Frank lingered by the door, wanting to say something.

I put the thimble in the drawer. “Frank, find me Grandma Eleanor’s old blue ledger.”

Frank’s face changed. “Miss… you’re going to touch the atelier’s records?”

I looked out at the magnolia tree in the yard. “Just looking for the ledger.”

Frank lowered his head. “Understood.”

I didn’t go to the club.

The next morning, Nora’s atelier had a crisis. A formal gown she’d made for a client’s event was flagged for having improper embroidery patterns. Photos spread everywhere.

Ethan came to the Sycamore House himself to find me.