ISLA

"Hello everyone, and welcome to the first annual Northeast Conference on Animal Rights."

My name is Isla Talbot, and I'm a recovered nobody.

I don't tell the audience that second part, of course. Instead, I share that I'm Isla Talbot, Boston College alumna and founder of Isla's Vegan Island, my beloved foodie blog. Then, I dive into what they came for, a fifteen-minute spiel about how to create engaging, quality online content.

This is what I do now. I'm a full-time blogger.

My weekly view counts are well the into six-digit range. When they first hit ten thousand, brands began reaching out for promotions. Eight months later, my sponsorships have paid for the next year's rent in Hoboken, a mini-New York across the river from the big city. I can afford things I never could before, like organic produce and a therapist.

I'm living my dream.

I wrap up my interactive PowerPoint with a smile and request for questions. A paisley blouse-covered arm shoots up in the first row.

"Yes, go ahead," I say.

"Hi. Brittany Salinger, office manager for Haven Hill Animal Shelter. How do you appear natural on camera while you're streaming?" Brittany shifts in her chair. "I always look awkward when I try to make videos."

The real answer is outtakes, outtakes, and more outtakes. The first recordings of my vlogs never make it to my official page. The second usually don't either.

Divulging such a secret to Brittany Salinger and her fellow audience members, however, isn't an option. My entire brand is being authentic, giggly, and carefree. Authentic, giggly, carefree bloggers don't redo every video until they're satisfied with their appearances.

"Lots and lots of practice," I answer. In a way, outtakes are practice, so I'm not being entirely untruthful. "I always do a dry run or two before I start recording. When I first started vlogging, I pretended I was speaking to a friend. That helped me warm up to being recorded."

Brittany thanks me while scribbling something onto a notepad. I glance around at the sea of forty attendees, all perched in rows of beige folding chairs.

"Any other questions?" I ask the silent room. Five long seconds pass before I conclude, "Alright. Feel free to head out to your next session. Thanks for stopping by."

As soon as the last straggler exits the hotel conference room, I plop onto the seat Brittany Salinger vacated, exhausted. Five fifteen-minute spiels don't sound like grueling tasks until you're faking a smile in stiff heels for the fourteenth straight minute. Relieved to be done, I swap my pumps for flip-flops, tuck my tablet and souvenir pen into my tote, and buy a bus ticket on the NJ Transit app.

It's time to go home.

Technically, the newly renovated house on Cedar Avenue isn't home anymore, but in the past year and a half, it's started to feel that way. I have Adrienne, my little sister, to thank for the change. She's an eighteen-month-old wild child who exclusively refers to me as Sissy, and I love her with every piece of my heart.

Two summers ago, when Mom dropped the I'm-having-a-baby news, my world shattered. For the first twenty years of my life, my mother was aloof at best and neglectful at worst. Seemingly overnight, she took on a doting mama role. I couldn't help but resent Mom, her new partner Austin, and their do-over baby, wondering how she could favor unborn Adrienne over her existing daughter. To cope, I kept Mom at an arm's length, even when she tried to make amends, too untrusting to accept her newfound love.

Then, on Christmas Eve, a water pipe exploded in my Boston apartment. I had three choices: Freeze to death on the Chestnut Hill sidewalk, spend thousands on a last-minute hotel room, or intrude on a perfect, nuclear family. After a couple glasses of wine, I decided on the third.

I'm eternally grateful that I did. I fell in love with Adrienne the moment she wrapped her little hand around my finger. She was like a magnet, drawing me out of the room I'd intended to hide in until my Boston home—my real home—became habitable again. Out of hibernation, I watched Mom be the type of parent she couldn't with me, but I was no longer resentful. I couldn't despise my mother for giving my little sister what she needed.

The week I planned to stay home turned into a month. Mom and I bonded in a way we never had before. She told me about her childhood, growing up with repressive, religious zealots for parents, a mother and father who disowned her when they discovered she was pregnant with me. We even talked about my father. I learned that Mom didn't leave him, despite his abuse, because he threatened to flee the country with me in tow if she dared try.

During my month in Bloomfield, I got to know Austin too. He's awesome, an adoring father to Adrienne and a sweet partner to Mom. We bonded by teasing Mom over her obsession with Love Island, and he always sided with me when Mom and I couldn't agree on a movie to watch.

I thought returning to college would be a relief, but I teared up saying goodbye to Mom, Austin, and Adrienne. Two months later, I seized the chance to visit home for spring break. I spent most of the week playing peekaboo with my little sister and catching up with Mom and Austin before their weekend getaway, a hot air balloon adventure in upstate New York.

A thousand feet in the air, Austin got down on one knee. Mom was so excited she tried to convince him to swing by the courthouse on the way back home, but he insisted Adrienne and I be there for the ceremony.

He's a keeper.

I mean, he'd better be. They've been married a couple weeks now.

The half-mile trek home from the bus stop is worth every bead of sweat when I hear, "Sissy!"

I pause my musings about purchasing a car with blog money to greet my sister and take in the scene before me. Austin's in his ragged painting clothes, giving the mailbox post a makeover. Mom's navy-blue sundress matches Adrienne's, except Adrienne's is covered in frills and chalk dust.

"Hello, Adri!" I call. I kneel on the driveway just in time for a hug. Adrienne jumps into my arms, allowing me to lift her up and spin her in a circle.

"Sissy, play?" she asks in her adorable little voice.

"Yes, please." I set her down and let her guide me to the array of sidewalk chalk surrounding Mom.

"Someone's been excited to see her sister all day," Mom says affectionately.

I feign surprise with an exaggerated gasp. "Adrienne was excited to see me?"

Adri giggles so hard she squeaks.

Poor thing takes after me. I also squeak, usually when emotions run high. Luckily for Adrienne's sake, she's an adorable squeaker, so my flaw is her delightful little quirk.

Mom pulls me into a side hug, and when I lift my head from her shoulder, Austin has abandoned the home improvement activity to say hello. I bite back a smile. That's pretty much the biggest compliment Austin Stewart can pay a person.

I notice heavy bags under his eyes that match Mom's, and I wonder if Adrienne is letting them sleep. I'm tempted to offer my babysitting services, but I hold my tongue.

It's not that I don't want to. I could hang out with my little sister for a week straight and miss her by the time I board the bus home. Adrienne isn't the problem. Bloomfield is the problem.

Now that school's out, visiting home is dangerous. I'm at risk of running into Parker, my next-door neighbor, any second. There's an equal chance I scream obscenities or burst into tears upon seeing him. Neither sets a good example for Adrienne, so I'm metaphorically crossing my fingers that he has other plans this afternoon.

To say that Parker Flaherty is my ex would oversimplify the beautiful trainwreck that has been our relationship for the last seventeen years. Parker Jace Flaherty, formerly known as PJ, was also my best friend and, at one point, my roommate. Two summers ago, while interning at his grandfather's company, we occupied the same small Manhattan apartment with his twin brother, James, and an uninvited guest called sexual tension.

Within weeks, we caved. Our relationship was a whirlwind of sweet moments, passionate fights, and mind-blowing sex. As the summer drew to a close, long distance between Boston and his New Jersey college proved too big a barrier to overcome. We broke up but promised to keep in touch and rekindle things upon graduating in two years.

That was the plan until January.

Out of nowhere, Parker stopped speaking to me. We didn't get in a fight. From what I've seen on social media and been able to force out of James, Parker isn't dating someone else. I have no idea what transformed me from soulmate to disposable clinger.

I try to stay present with Adrienne, Mom, and Austin, but my eyes keep flitting to the house next door, searching for a guy who can't even be bothered to text me back.

"Earth to Isla," Mom sings.

I blink to snap myself out of my funk. "Sorry," I sigh. "Long day."

Mom casts a knowing look at the Flahertys' house. If Austin is aware of my heartbreak, he doesn't let on, yet another reason why I'm a big fan of his.

"How was the conference?" he asks.

I grin. "It was good. I'm still shocked they asked me to give a seminar."

I thought the organizers were joking when they reached out to ask if I'd be interested in speaking at their conference. Not only were they serious; people actually signed up to hear what I had to say about branding and content creation.

"I'm not shocked," Mom says, and I detect a bit of pride in her voice.

Even though I'm twenty-two years old, I feel a rush of warmth. I'm still getting used to the whole Mom-expressing-her-emotions-and-love thing.

But the warmth becomes an ice storm in my chest when her expression turns serious. "They set a date," she adds quietly.

She doesn't need to clarify who they are or what the date is. I knew what she was talking about from the moment her face took on a haunted shadow.

She's talking about her ex-husband, my father. The parole board scheduled a date to hear Rick Talbot plead his case for an early release.

The fourteen-year sentence with a chance for parole after ten seemed like an eternity when the judge smacked his gavel. In my twelve-year-old brain, ten years was nearly a lifetime. From sentencing day forward, I envisioned my future as an infinite period of freedom from Rick Talbot's wrath.

Those peaceful days are behind us now. Anxiety and fear are my present and future.

"When?" I choke out.

"August first."

In just over two months, I'll find out if I'm safe for another year before he undergoes his annual evaluation. I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to watch my sweet, innocent little sister playing and humming, blissfully unaware of the danger she could be in.

"No matter the outcome, he won't be coming anywhere around here," Austin says, his voice uncharacteristically menacing.

"Thanks," I whisper, grateful that Mom and Adrienne have him to protect them, not that he can stand guard at all times...

"You can testify at the hearing or write a letter to the board in advance," Mom says softly. Her calloused hand rests on mine, and I suck in a deep breath. "I'm going to write a letter."

"Does the letter hold the same weight as testifying in person?" I ask.

"Yes." She half-smiles at me. "Looked it up this afternoon."

"I'll do that too, then," I decide. Writing a letter about the abuse I endured at my father's hand will be psychologically taxing, but I'd rather pen a memoir of my darkest memories than face Rick in court for a single second.

"I'm proud of you, Isla." Mom squeezes my hand before turning to Austin. "Look at her. Isn't she great?"

Austin chuckles. "She sure is."

"You guys," I groan, but I can't hold the sass for long. My groan gives way to a couple giggles. Like I said, I'm still learning how this whole parental love thing works.

The giggles promptly die in my throat when I hear the crunch of tires in the driveway beside ours.

Please be literally any other Flaherty.

"Well, well, well. Look who's home." Mom's suggestive tone informs me that my wish remains unfilled.

I peek up and confirm my fear. Parker is home, stepping out of his Jeep. Even worse, Adrienne lets out a squeak of joy and hurdles towards him.

Ready or not, and I'm really not, it's time for the reunion I've been dreading.