Tess Sharpe

Those first six months—that entire first year, really—she was reeling, needing a teammate, while I needed a mother.

But this time, she kind of sighs it through her fingers as if she’s trying to hold it in. As if it’s suddenly become a secret I’m not supposed to hear

She’s definitely had too much to drink—she’s talking this freely with me. And I’ve definitely had too much to drink, too, that I’m sitting here, hanging on her words like she’s a cliff I’ve slipped from. But I keep hold instead of letting go

“I’m grown, remember? If I was a cake, I’d be baked.”

“If you were a cake, you’d be baked but undecorated.”

That eager to live with me, huh?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You ignored my texts.”

“I’ve been busy clearing out the rooms you’re going to use,” Penny says innocently. “We should move the beds over first.”

Will she forever be the audience to my worst moments? Am I as weak and broken in her eyes as I feel?

Does she know what she did that day?

I will find you when you need me,” she says. “And I will stay if you want me. But, Penny, there shouldn’t be sides here.”

“If there are sides in this, I’m on yours.”

I don’t pull shit like this. I am a good daughter. I don’t sneak out—I don’t have to. Because Mom and I, we have trust. And I know how valuable—and rare—it is, because I see what not having that has done to Penny.

“Scratches give character. Nothing in life comes out unscathed.”