Silver Stilettos

21 | hey, sister

I awoke to warmth and a ringing that sounded like it was coming from very far away. Still groggy from sleep and sticky between my thighs, my eyes shuttered, willing the disturbance away. My toes clenched the sheets, robotically releasing and latching onto the fabric in an even tempo.

My panties were around my knees, I realized. I inched them upward, trying not to shift. I peeked at Reed out of the corner of my eye, positive I was beet-red from embarrassment. His forehead was lined with worry even in his sleep. His hand, the hand that had sent me tumbling and gasping and blazing, was under his cheek.

He hadn't shown any signs of waking up, so I reached my arm out, double tapping the nightstand with eyes still heavy with the last vestiges of unshed slumber. Grateful that he hadn't slung an arm or leg around me, I stretched my body to the floor and picked up my purse. Without looking at the Caller ID, I answered the phone call with a tired, "Hello?"

"Mayuri!"

The haze lifted. "Mom?" I straightened uncertainly, unable to keep myself from looking at Reed. Guilt churned in the pit of my stomach.

Her voice was sharp, singed with an urgency that made my mind perk to alertness. "Where are you?"

"At a...at a friend's." Again, I stared at Reed's face. Technically, it wasn't a lie. "I told you."

"Come home," Mom said. Her voice had grown louder, almost like she was trying not to shout, and I heard male voices in the background.

"What's wrong?" I clutched the phone to my ear. Sick guilt roiled like thrashing waves. "Is it—Is it Dad? Did something—" I couldn't continue.

"Not your father. Your friend Emily." My mom didn't pause long enough for me to ask what had happened. "She's been in an accident."

Everything hit me at once: confusion, shock, fear, shame.

"She...no, that can't..." An inhumane noise came out of my throat. "How?"

I heard her conferring with my dad in hushed whispers. I heard his deep baritone and felt instantly soothed that nothing bad had happened to him, but no sooner had the relief sunk in that the guilt returned. Nothing bad had happened to my dad, but something bad had happened to someone.

"She was in a car accident, Mayuri. She was driving your car."

The guilt broke over me, fracturing my mind until another keening moan released. My car.

"There were open text messages on her phone," Mom continued.

My text resounded in my ears like a stinging slap. You're so dead.

"Come home," Mom pleaded.

Hollow, I didn't answer at once. This was all my fault. She had been driving my car. She could have been targeted because of me. Because of what I'd written. Because I hadn't done what Reed had told me to do and deleted the blog the moment he'd warned me about his family's ties to the Albanian mob.

A sob choked in my throat.

"Mayuri, come home. Now." My father's voice came on the line, ringing with authority. "Do you hear me? Mayuri?" This was his stern, Dad voice, the kind he only pulled out of his repertoire when Kiran left clothes on the bathroom floor or wadded them in niches of his room instead of using the hamper.

"Yes. I will. I'm coming now." My throat had gone so dry that the words rasped. "Dad, is she...will she be okay?"

No answer. More whispers.

I looked at Reed, envied his ignorance. I sought the solace only he could provide, twining my fingers through his free hand. Though his arm was heavy and reluctant to move, I navigated it closer, laid his palm on my thigh, and imagined that it was his lips there instead.