24 | julie james

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR | JULIE JAMES

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It's taken me months to do it, but I finally decide to trust Doctor Albott and give Xavier a chance.

I don't do it immediately, though, and know that my insistence in waiting for the right time, when I'll be fully prepared to open that door,is cemented in nothing but a deep fear of facing the truth head on. As long as I keep making excuses to delay that conversation, the harder I'll suffer in anticipation, which is far from being the desired outcome.

Odette and Betty are both acutely aware of this and have urged me to do it as soon as possible—for my sake and his, not because they're curious. I know they are, even without saying it to my face, but I appreciate the sentiment nonetheless; at least they care, and they know my happiness depends on the quality of my relationship with Xavier.

Thus, I tell them I'll talk to Xavier after Betty talks to Callum and has a proper, productive conversation with him instead of plotting his murder and disposal of his body. She protests like I've just suggested she should punch a professor in the face or kick a puppy—or, say, Sidney—like it's the worst thing in the world, and even turns to Odette for support, pouting.

"You know that's the one thing I can't do," Betty tells her, reaching out for her hands. One of Odette's hands is holding a strawberry scone and, for a second, I'm glad we're hanging out at her house and not at mine, where Xavier would be complaining about our choice in pastries every five minutes. "Don't listen to her, Odie. I'm literally begging you. Don't make me do this. Don't make me pretend to be his friend; you know I'm a terrible liar."

"Well, you could always . . . not lie," Odette retorts, moving her scone away. The only issue with that is Sidney herself, who's been patiently sitting opposite Betty and, therefore, is in direct view of the scone. She even sticks her tongue out, approaching Odette with caution like she doesn't know I'm keeping an eye on her, and I let her have some fun before deciding to reprimand her. "You could give him a genuine chance. Don't just pretend to."

"I'm failing the Bechdel test for your sake."

Odette rolls her eyes. "That's not what this is about. You could be nicer to him and you know it. He's been putting in the effort to treat you better, and you keep acting like he kicks kittens on a daily basis."

Defeated, Betty falls back to her bean bag chair, arms crossed in front of her chest. "How do you know he doesn't?" Odette kicks her on the calf, while I finally decide to beckon Sidney to return to my side instead of attempting to steal Odette's scone. Disappointed, she trots towards me and curls around herself by my feet. "Look, I'm just saying. There's a reason we've never gotten along, and I highly doubt we'll be best buddies all of a sudden. I have a lot on my plate right now, and I can't afford to be stressed out over it." She turns to me then, frowning. "It's not fair to use me as an excuse not to talk to your brother, you know. If you don't feel ready, just be honest about it."

I let out a deep sigh, elbows set on my knees. "I'm not using you as an excuse, B. I just think both of us have been postponing these conversations for way too long—"

"You have, I haven't. I don't want to talk to Callum."

"—and yes, I'm not ready to talk to Xavier. I'm not sure I'll ever be, but I still know it's something both of us have to do if we want to move forward with our lives. It's the one secret that shouldn't exist between us. I know it's not the same as what's going on between you and Callum—"

"I think the most important thing is what's not going on between them, personally," Odette adds, taking a swig of her beer, which I'm not sure how she ever managed to sneak into the house. I'm an expert at steering away from alcohol now, the bitter taste of that vodka soda still lingering in my tongue after all these weeks.

"—but I thought it would help us both with getting it done once and for all. I don't understand why you're so against it."

Betty goes silent and reaches out for her own bottle, effectively ending the conversation, and I know we won't make any progress past that point. Odette returns to the paper she's been working on for the past two days, flipping her septum piercing back around—she always flips it up around her parents—while I resume my newfound annoying habit of pacing around a room that isn't mine.

I've been to Odette's house more times since Halloween than I ever have since the day I first met her, and I have yet to meet her parents. Her room, however, gives me a bigger insight on who she is than the little conversations we've had so far, with tidbits of her personality scattered all around.

She owns books on law, certainly influenced by her mother's position as a district attorney, but she's never come across as someone wanting to go into a career in that area, especially after saying her parents don't consider Social Sciences a science. There are other fields she can choose from—Journalism, Sociology, even Psychology—though she seems somewhat indecisive about what she wants to pursue, as evidenced by the academic memorabilia from those areas displayed on her shelves. She paints, too, with the numerous colorful abstract paintings hanging on the walls giving a well needed splash of color to what would otherwise be quite a monochromatic room.

The first time she caught me staring at them, she asked me if I wanted to know who had painted them, like I didn't think she was capable of having multiple interests spanning different areas of expertise. She almost looked ashamed to be in the spotlight for once, like she was scared of me and whatever my opinion on her art would be—though I still didn't know it was hers at the time.

"I don't do it often," she told me, avoiding my eyes. "I haven't had much time to do it lately. Mom lets me do it just because she thinks it's therapeutic, but I'm suddenly glad I'm not interested in making a career out of it. You've never met either of my parents, but I think you remember what I told you about their opinion on my major." I nodded, unsure of whether she was looking at me at that point or not. "They think art is admirable in general, just not as a career choice for me. This was their compromise; I can study what I want as long as I can guarantee a financially stable future for myself. Imagine if I ever dared tell her I genuinely like painting; she'd make me drop it out of fear it would distract me from actually relevant goals."

"She sounds strict," I muttered, albeit I was aware it wasn't my place to make comments like that. I didn't know her parents; just because mine hadn't been too hands-on regarding my education and life choices, it didn't mean it was my place to speak. In fact, it was quite the opposite.

"She is, but she means well. She doesn't want me to make the same mistakes she did when she was my age. At least she has Betty, who, as we all know, has been jumping at the chance to be an intern at Mom's office, so it helps."

She was looking straight at me, searching for some validation, and a weird feeling coursed through my veins. It was stupid, but I felt relieved that there was some other person in the world with a family member who's more attached to Betty as a part of the family than to themselves, though that wasn't how I wanted to relate to Odette—again. It's not fair to Betty, either, and she has done nothing wrong.

I've never wanted to think of myself as a bitter person, but it hurts not being seen in your own house, especially when there's someone else occupying the limelight that should be yours. I'm supposed to be Xavier's sister, but the sister he once knew died in June, and Betty was the closest thing he had to one in here, so I can't even compete with that. With going back in time and becoming the girl I used to be out of the equation, there's not much I can do.

"I read about your major online," I continued. "There are a lot of respectable fields you can get into, including Government. Wouldn't that be an acceptable compromise?"

Odette sighed, freeing her hair from her ponytail. "What's acceptable to people like you and me isn't considered acceptable by people like my mom." She wrapped her arms around her knees, staring out of the massive window in her bedroom, right next to her bed. In the middle of all the beiges and warm tones, her dark clothes easily stood out. "She dared to be a dreamer once. An artist—she used to be a pianist, and a really good one at that. Her parents were very adamant to crush her dreams, pushed her into a career she hated, and only agreed to let her marry my dad because he's a doctor. That was their compromise; they wouldn't let her do what she loved, but let her be with the man she loved because it was convenient."

"Shouldn't she be more accepting of you choosing an alternate path, then? If she's trying so hard not to let you make the same mistakes—"

"She thinks the piano was a mistake, Wendy." That shut me right up, and she didn't even need to raise her voice. All she had to do was be firm and assertive, finding the right way to deliver the final blow. "It's either this or law school. God knows I can't do law school." She paused for a bit, chewing on her bottom lip. "Callum has been the one good thing I've gotten out of all of this. Even if Betty doesn't like him, I wanted her to at least understand he's not the bad guy here. He's been more supportive than anyone else in my life."

I didn't say another thing about that, and tried my hardest to change the topic of conversation into one that didn't hurt either of us. To my surprise, she was thankful.

In the present, Betty lets out a sigh in exasperation, startling everyone else in the room. "Fine. Fine. I'll do it. But you"—she points at me—"owe me. Big time."

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"The least you could do was not look so satisfied with yourself," Betty tells me, through gritted teeth. Her backpack's strap dangles down her shoulder, gently making the heavy weight of the bag bump into my hip as we walk, but I accept it as valid punishment for pushing her to do something she definitely doesn't want to do. "This is just a conversation—one conversation. An olive branch. This isn't me declaring him as the second coming of Jesus."

I fake being contemplative. "Now that you mention it, he does look like Jesus a little bit."

"Wendy, he's fucking white."

"Okay, but—"

"I love you, but stop. We're not comparing Callum to Jesus Christ. How much do you actually want to feed his ego?"

I raise my hands by my shoulders, going fully into a defensive stance before she turns on me just because she doesn't want to talk to Callum.

I try to put myself in her shoes, try to figure out why she's dreading this so much, but ultimately fail, as I have yet to understand what her problem with him is. Her only explanation of their so-called feud felt underwhelming, like it's all because of Odette, but I feel it might run deeper than that; if it truly is about fighting for her attention and knowing what's best for her, then Callum would be a lot more hostile with Betty. I'm glad he isn't, being selfish enough to not be comfortable with an angry man standing that close to me, and what I have is a mildly amused Callum who thinks nothing of her opinion on him.

Doctor Albott isn't here, but I'm sure she'd have a lot to say about my insistence in getting involved in this feud like it's my business and the reasons behind it. Fixing things I shouldn't be attempting to fix in the first place is one of the few ways I can control what's happening around me, even if no one asked me to do it or even wants me to do it—Betty sure as hell is against it.

Being able to predict what Doctor Albott would do or say to me in any given situation isn't a talent I'm proud of having—at least I'm convincing myself I can do that—but I never know when I might need it. Holding my breath and pretending to be dead helped me survive once, albeit just barely, but this isn't a life or death matter; at most, it impacts the quality of my life.

As Betty complains while we walk towards our usual table at the Grill, where Callum and Odette are already sitting to wait for us, I give myself a moment to stop and think about what has just crossed my mind—the quality of my life, not the quality of my survival.

I don't know when I made the transition from one outlook to the other, so drastic in contrast, and I'm not sure how to feel about it. Was it my decision all along, or have there been other powers at play? Is this something I can control? Can I be trusted with making these decisions by myself, for myself, or do I need external intervention? What does this mean for my future?

"What's up, asshole?" Betty greets, throwing her backpack to an empty chair. Odette throws her a mortifying glare, while Callum calmly looks up, nursing a large caramel latte. "I'm so flattered that you instantly knew I was talking to you instead of one of the dozen insufferable people in this place."

"Elizabeth," he replies, in lieu of taking the bait. Their dynamic is somewhat amusing, though I would never admit it aloud, especially in front of Odette, who I'm still trying to impress for whatever reason. It feels manipulative coming from me, and I force myself to keep those thoughts at bay; unfortunately, I can never tell whether it's just all in my head or if it's true.

"I want to call a truce."

"A truce."

"That's right. Stop looking at me like that," she tells Odette, who's wearing the exact same smug look I was on our way here from the parking lot. Odette chuckles, hiding behind a paper napkin, and flashes her a thumbs up. Betty huffs and stomps her feet, like this is the absolute worst thing to have ever happened to her, turning to Callum once more. "I'm sick and tired of fighting with you. I don't want to be your friend, but I don't want to spend the rest of my life hating you just because you're annoying. For the record, you're the most annoying person I've ever met, and I've met Wendy's brother. I know annoying."

"Hey," I protest.

Neither of them pay me any attention, but Odette nods towards the empty chair in front of her and pushes one of the halves of her croissant towards it. My stomach is grumbling, courtesy of accidentally oversleeping, missing my alarm, and being forced to skip breakfast at home just so I wouldn't be late—both for my World Literature lecture and for moral support.

Meanwhile, Callum leans back, lacing his fingers over his stomach. "And you're doing all of this because . . .?"

"Like I said, it's exhausting. I have more important things to worry about; some of us actually care about our future and aren't just winging and bullshitting our way through college."

He nods slowly—once, twice. "What's in it for me?"

Betty blinks, confused. "Why would there be anything in it for you?"

"I have nothing against you, but you've been hostile and aggressive towards me since day one for no apparent reason, so I've learned to not take it personally. If you had walked up to me and actually apologized, maybe I wouldn't be thinking you're doing this based on some hidden agenda, not out of the kindness of your heart."

They continue bickering for another five minutes, with Odette refusing to get involved, while I'm secretly grateful for Betty choosing not to throw me under the bus. The whole thing was my idea, even if I suspect Betty only agreed to play along for Odette's sake, not mine, and she could very well have dumped the blame on me, but she didn't.

It's a clear reminder the good in people exists outside my head. It's a helpful reminder that not everyone is plotting against me. I don't know where this willingness to trust people ever came from and with what purpose, but it ended up bringing me to these two girls; surely it must mean something.

Something good.

"Okay, I'm sorry for being a bitch to you," Betty ultimately says, holding her head between her hands, exasperated. Callum doesn't have a single lock of hair out of place, like this was what he wanted all along. "You haven't been that great to me, either, but I guess it was mostly as a response."

He ironically claps. "See? Was that so hard?"

"Piss off, Callum."

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and Sidney's ears perk up at the sudden interruption, stealing her attention away from my half of the croissant. I knit my brows together, having to squint to be able to read the text message from Xavier I just got, as the lighting in the Grill is nothing but spectacular to make up for how dark it is outside.

Mom and Dad are flying here for Christmas. She's bringing her fiancé along. Happy holidays I guess?

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did you forget they have parents? bet you did