Chapter 10
AURORA
The study is quiet when Roman finishes talking to himself under his breath, save for the shuffling of papers as he replaces the letters.
I turn to face the wall, partly because I insisted the papers were private and partly because there’s work to do here anyway.
The file cabinets grate loudly as I slide one open, then the other, checking to see what’s inside.
It’s nothing exciting, just folders with a few papers here and there, but it’s something to pay attention to.
I riffle through the folders, checking the labels—Finance, Personal, House, Car, and so on—while Roman remains quiet behind me. When he finally speaks, his words are unsurprising.
“Don’t you want to know what else is in these letters?” he says.
Glancing over my shoulder at him, I respond, “Not really.”
It’s not strictly true. I want to look at the rest of the letters, not because I’m nosy but because they appear to be old, and it’s cool to see a piece of history that’s survived all this time.
I turn all the way around to face him when he holds the letters up and gives them a wave. He strides further into the room with slow, leisurely steps. “You can ask,” he says, raising one brow at me. “You’re allowed to ask.”
I stare at him with disbelief and more than a little suspicion. “You want me to pry into your business?”
He shrugs, but the motion isn’t as casual as he’s going for. “No one ever does,” he says lightly as he continues to approach me. “I thought it might be fun.”
“It’s not,” I say flatly. I put my hands on my hips. “People prying into your business is obnoxious. Like when someone keeps asking questions about why you need another job.”
“Mmm,” he hums, looking amused now. “But you answered, didn’t you?” He pauses, stopping in front of me. “How long do you think you could hold a grudge? A month? A year?”
And I find myself suddenly faced with a sticky problem: When Roman is looming like this…he doesn’t feel twenty-five.
Twenty-five is so young; it’s definitely younger than I expected. But right now, he doesn’t feel young or old or anything at all except large—a large frame, a large presence.
I swallow and push the ridiculous thought aside. “Try me and find out.”
The amusement in his eyes sparks into a grin.
“I suppose I can respect your privacy in the future,” he says, surprising me.
A few strands of hair fall over his forehead as he tilts his chin down to look at me.
“But I’m an open book to anyone who cares enough to read.
Ask me all the questions you want, Aurora Marigold.
I would love nothing more than to tell you the answers.
” He waves the bundle of letters again, the twine still hanging halfway out of his pocket.
“I think you’re bluffing.”
He gasps, looking affronted. “I would never.”
“Then why were you in the holding cell?”
“Drunk,” he says promptly. He folds his arms and grimaces. “But it’s depressing you started with something that reflects so badly on me.”
“That’s it?” I say after a surprised pause. “You were drunk?”
“I was messy drunk,” he corrects me. “In public. In the middle of the road, to be exact.”
My nose wrinkles, and I don’t try to smooth my expression. “Ew.”
He nods. “Indeed.”
“You can be an open book all you want,” I say, “but you should consider keeping some things to yourself.”
“I’ve heard women don’t like when men keep secrets.”
“Women don’t like when men do things they feel the need to keep secret,” I say. “But I don’t think that’s a gender thing. I think that applies to everyone.”
He hums again, thoughtfully now. “You’re probably right.” Then, after a beat of silence, he says, “So you’re not going to ask about the rest of the letters?”
“Nope,” I say, and I’m proud of myself for facing the filing cabinets with casualness and confidence. “Not even one question. I’m going to work on these a bit more, and then I’m going home.”
And somehow I’m not surprised by his answer, maybe because he says it a lot. I can even picture the careless shrug of his shoulders as he speaks:
“Suit yourself.”
His footsteps disappear out of the room behind me, and he doesn’t appear again while I’m there. He doesn’t even respond when I yell that I’m leaving for the day.
When I go to dinner at my parents’ house on Sunday evening, I’ve already decided not to tell them about the financial mess that’s been dropped in my lap. I won’t tell them, and I won’t feel an ounce of regret about keeping it to myself.
I don’t need them worrying about me. I don’t need to strain my dad’s heart, and I don’t need my mom to panic.
Interestingly enough, however, the atmosphere is still a little off.
My mom, much like Juliet, goes through cooking phases every now and then. She’s not a stress baker like Jules; it’s more that she gets excited about cooking, and so she tries a bunch of new recipes all at once, and then she makes us taste them.
The problem is that while my mom is an excellent baker, she’s less gifted at cooking.
I don’t know how it’s possible to be good at one and bad at the other, but she manages.
So when all four of us and our parents are seated around the kitchen table and my mom begins bringing out dishes we’ve never seen, we all get a little nervous.
A muscle jumps in Cyrus’s otherwise impassive face. India’s lips twist into a little grimace. Juliet and I look at each other with disconcertion.
And then the battle begins.
Because we have a very specific routine for dinners like this.
I shoot a look at Cyrus, who shakes his head firmly, his jaw tightening further. When my look turns into a glare, Jules and India look at him too. He’s now gritting his teeth so hard they might shatter, and beneath the table, he aims a well-placed kick at my ankle.
I hiss in pain as my eyes fill with tears, and then I kick him back. Meanwhile Juliet and India have slid down in their chairs in a vain attempt to reach Cyrus’s legs so that they too can kick him, but to no avail; they flail around for a second before—
“Ouch!” my dad says, startling as his brow furrows in pain.
We all stop kicking immediately and adopt facial expressions of casual ease. India’s is most convincing; Juliet’s is the least. Cyrus’s eyes are still narrowed on me, but he’s relaxed his jaw.
“Who’s kicking?” my dad says now, looking around at us. His normally good-natured face has a little frown on it now.
Juliet falls on that grenade for us, which is probably best, because she can’t keep a poker face. “That was me,” she says. “Sorry.”
Our dad’s expression clears, and he chuckles. “Be careful down there. You’ll kick my legs clean off.”
She offers a weak smile and then looks around at the rest of us, her shoulders falling in resignation when she spots the apologetic expressions on my face and India’s. Even Cyrus offers her a sympathetic grimace.
But she was the first to show weakness this time. It may as well be her.
So when my mom sits at the table next to my dad and gestures around at the casserole dish full of something steaming and green, Juliet gives a little smile.
“Go ahead and try it!” my mom says with enthusiasm. Then she points to the white dish giving off a very vinegar-y scent. “And this one too!”
We all scoop some of the food on our plates with clinking utensils, but Juliet is the first to take a bite. Our keen eyes watch as she chews the green casserole, and when her expression clears into something easier, we breathe a collective sigh of relief.
The lumpy green casserole must taste better than it looks. We all start with that one, taking vague bites as we watch Jules try the vinegar dish.
And just as I suspect, her nose wrinkles, and she coughs, gasping faintly and then grabbing her glass of water.
“Careful,” our mom says cheerfully. “There’s a nasty cold going around. Cough into your elbow. We don’t want to get sick.”
“Sorry,” Jules says in between gulps of her drink. Her eyes dart around the table at us bearing a clear message: Take small bites and have a drink at hand.
We nod grimly, and as per usual, I watch my dad with amazement as he shovels the food into his mouth—heaping spoonfuls, accompanied by nothing more than a pleasant expression.
Maybe he likes my mom’s experiments, or maybe he just loves her enough that he pushes through. Either way, I love him for it.
Felix would pretend to love India’s food. Luca would pretend to love Juliet’s—although, to be fair, Juliet’s food is always delicious.
My sisters would pretend to love my disgusting food. That’s enough, isn’t it?
It is. Of course it is.
Between taking small bites and drinking water and smiling convincingly, our parents ask us the usual questions—how things are going, is anything new happening, how we’ve been feeling in general.
I’m reminded briefly of Roman, of what he said when I asked if he actually wanted me to pry into his personal business.
No one ever does. I thought it might be fun.
I shake my head, ridding myself of the memory before lying blatantly to my parents, looking my sweet mother right in the eye and telling her that no, nothing new is happening in my life, and yes, I’m doing very well.
India and Juliet follow my lead, answering honestly but not revealing anything about my sudden financial dilemma.
I’m grateful that they’re keeping my secret, even if I know they want to help.
I am a little concerned about Cyrus, however, who shoots me a frown that I don’t like at all.
Cyrus is deceptively sharp when it comes to Juliet and India and sometimes even me.
I don’t know why that look is on his face now, but in case he can tell I’m not being entirely truthful, I start to eat more quickly.
I make my way through the vinegar vegetables, just to get it over with, before finishing the green casserole.
When most of my food is gone, I look at my wrist before remembering I’m not wearing a watch. I sigh anyway.
“I need to head out,” I say to my parents, and my mom nods.
“That’s fine, sweetheart,” she says with a smile. “Next week I’m thinking of trying a shrimp recipe I found a while back; you’ll have to come try that, of course.”
“Of course,” I say, trying to keep my voice strong even as the idea fills me with dread. Maybe we can get Juliet to help my mom with that recipe, because bad seafood is bad.
“I’ll see you guys later,” I say with a little wave. I take my dish to the sink and rinse it before sticking it in the open dishwasher; then I hurry to the laundry room and through the garage.
I’m so close. I’m almost there. I’m moving as fast as I possibly can.
But, unfortunately, it’s not fast enough.
“All right.” Cyrus’s voice breaks through the warm evening air, accompanied by the closing of the laundry room door behind him. His footsteps thud down the driveway toward me, and when he reaches the car, he speaks again. “What’s going on with you?”
Dang it.
“Nothing is going on with me,” I say impassively, turning to look at him over the top of the open car door.
He snorts, folding his arms. “You liar.”
I narrow my eyes at him, because if there’s one person who can provoke my temper without even trying, it’s my brother. “I’m not lying—”
“You’re obviously lying,” he cuts me off, even more exasperated now. “Tell me what’s going on or—”
“Or you’re going to tattle on me?” I say with a little smirk.
But his answer surprises me. “Exactly,” he says. His jaw is set now, his eyes serious. “So spit it out unless you want me to run to Mom and Dad.”
Is he serious?
“That’s low,” I say, trying not to let my jaw drop.
He gives a jerky shrug. “Don’t care.”
And I swear I could punch him. “Nothing is going on,” I say through gritted teeth. “It’s—I’m—I’m taking care of it, all right?”
“What is it, exactly? A guy?”
I swallow but don’t speak, and he moves on immediately.
“Work?” he says.
Stay calm, stay calm—
“Or is it money?”
And only a second later, he nods firmly. “It’s money. What happened? Did you get scammed?”
“Of course not.”
He lifts his brows skeptically. “I saw a news story about scammers conning people into buying giant dog beds. That seems like something you’d fall for.”
“What?” I say, bristling. “I would not.”
“I’m going to stand here until you tell me,” he says, and now he leans back against my car like he’s got all the time in the world. “And if you leave, I’m going to follow you home.”
I glower at him, because I know he’ll do it. He’ll absolutely do it.
Our stare down lasts twenty seconds before a gentle breeze forces me to blink. With a growl of frustration at Cyrus’s stupid smirk, I finally answer him.
“I just—I cosigned a loan, okay? And the primary party defaulted. So now I’m paying the rest. It’s not a problem. Why are you making such a big deal about this?” Anger bleeds into my words, because I hate that he’s making me say it out loud.
Cyrus straightens up, his eyes narrowing. “Was it that business guy? The other cleaner?”
I stare at him for a second. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Poppy never liked him.” He says it like Poppy’s bad opinion is all the recommendation he needs.
“Well, like I said—I’m taking care of it.
I have a payment plan set up. I’m going to visit Tyler and see what happened.
And you,” I say severely, pointing at him now, “are going to sit on your butt and do nothing, and you’re not going to tell Mom and Dad, and you’re going to keep your unfavorable opinions to yourself. ”
“Do you even know where this guy is?” he says, his voice skeptical and annoyed.
I swallow. If Tyler is still living where he used to…“I might.”
“And if you can’t find him?”
Roman’s face flashes through my mind, and before I can stop the words, they tumble out: “I know a guy.”