Carissa had been supporting Nikki for two years by then. Rent. Car insurance. The phone bill Nikki always forgot about until service got interrupted. Emergencies that looked suspiciously like salon appointments. A security deposit after yet another roommate disaster. A laptop because “everything in my life is falling apart” and she needed “just one person to help without making me feel bad.”
That person had always been Carissa.
Because Carissa was the one who got things done.
It had started in childhood and simply never stopped.
Nikki had been born with golden lashes, a fast smile, and a talent for crying at exactly the right moment. Adults adored her in the way people adore beautiful fires from a safe distance. She was “spirited” when she was irresponsible, “sensitive” when she was manipulative, “still figuring things out” long after the age where other women were expected to have figured things out already.
Carissa, on the other hand, had been praised for being “so mature” at twelve, which was the kind of compliment that usually meant a child had learned too early that no one was coming.
Their mother, Linda Hale, had spent years explaining Nikki to the world.