Jared sucked.

And Jax sucked, too. They both acted as if they had the whole damn world figured out, and everyone else was clueless.

“Okay,” I thought out loud, letting out a sigh and ignoring the whistles from cars passing by.

“Jax could’ve suggested me to Principal Masters when he heard I was coming back to town. But …” I paused, mumbling to myself, as Fuel’s “Hemorrhage” played through my earbuds. “Jax wouldn’t have known I enjoyed writing. In fact, I’d be a hell of a lot happier picking up garbage on the side of the road,” I grumbled.

“Hey, baby!” a male voice yelled out the passenger window of a car passing by.

I flipped him off without looking up.

I didn’t know why guys thought cattle-calling was sexy. It wasn’t as if I was dressed to impress or anything.

Even though all the other tutors dressed casually, I’d stuck to my skirts or dress shorts and nice blouses, hoping to at least look as though I hadn’t been forced by the state to be there.

And even though I hadn’t seen my mother, I knew she’d be disappointed if she saw me dressing unprofessionally in a professional situation.

But I had taken one risk.

Tate left behind some purple Chucks that went well with the white shorts and lavender peasant blouse I’d worn today, so I took a chance.

“And also,” I continued out loud, talking to myself, “I definitely don’t enjoy tutoring. No one that knew me would think I had the temperament to teach, and Jax had to know that much about me.”

“Those kids don’t need an attitude adjustment. You do.”

I stuck my hands in my pockets, narrowing my eyes.

Kids. Those kids. Guilt crept up on me. I might have been only three years older than them, but technically speaking, I was the adult. They were youths needing direction, inspiration, and encouragement.

And I was failing them.

I walked and walked, thinking about Jax’s words, thinking about Tate telling me to get wild, thinking about all the things I could’ve done differently the past two weeks in tutoring.

I walked up streets I’d only ever driven through and down lanes where I’d seen the seasons change so beautifully growing up. It was funny how much I enjoyed walking now. Even though I was sweating, and my hair, flatironed and shiny this morning, was now stuffed into a high, messy bun, my head felt clear.

And I’d finally come to a conclusion.

“Juliet? You could serve God, serve your country, or serve the ones you love, but to find true happiness you must always serve someone or something other than yourself.”

My dad. He told me that one day when he was still in the hospital, on a rare occasion he didn’t think I was my sister. One of the last times anyone other than Shane called me Juliet.

Walking past Tate’s house, past Jax’s house where I noticed Madoc’s GTO parked, I continued the few blocks until I reached my house. My house that had never felt like a home once my dad left.

Looking up at the two-story redbrick Colonial, I clenched the fists in my pockets as my chest flooded with heat.

My mother wasn’t going to be happy.

I reached for the door handle but pulled back, wondering if I was supposed to knock. Swallowing the sudden rush of saliva in my mouth, I fisted the handle and gritted my teeth.

And pushed through the unlocked door.

“Mother?” I called out, stepping calmly into the foyer.

The scent of lemon furniture polish hit me, and my nose started to sting. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the light hardwood floors were soaked in it. Everything shone, from my left to my right. Up the sterile white walls of the staircase to the glimmering tabletops in the dining and living rooms.

Glancing up the wall along the stairs, I saw the same pictures of my sister and me that had been there forever. But the pictures never portrayed us as siblings but instead as a single child growing up. My sister’s photos hung on the wall showing her growth until her death when she was five, and then photos of me after age five took over as if K.C.’s life continued.

All photos of K. C. Carter, a sister I never met. Not one photo of me as Juliet.

I had looked it up on the Internet once. A child conceived to replace another is called a ghost child.

Me.

I heard footfalls above me and looked up, my heart starting to pound double time.

“K.C.?” My mother’s voice preceded her as she rounded the staircase and stopped at the top to peer down at me.

I peered back up, absentmindedly tapping my fingers on my leg from inside the pockets.

My mother looked like Mary Poppins. She always did. Thin and beautiful. Creamy skin that looked fantastic with red lipstick. And black hair always done up in some kind of twist or bun. Her clothes, even the casual ones she wore around the house, were always clean and pressed.

Today, she wore a yellow, flared, knee-length skirt and a white button-up cardigan. Lightweight, from the looks of it, but it still had to be hot as hell if she stepped outside.

“Take your hands out of your pockets,” she instructed in a calm voice.

I obeyed, suddenly feeling as though I should’ve showered and cleaned up before I came here.

“Hello, Mother.”

“It’s nice to see you. I’ve been calling. And texting.” She sounded annoyed as she clasped her hands in front of her.

I hadn’t returned her calls, and I knew that would piss her off. That wasn’t my intention. I just didn’t want to talk to her.