Chapter 15
INDIA
Me
It does not take this long to grab ingredients, Jules.
Dancing Queen Jules
Do you want your carrot cake to taste good?
Yes?
Then be patient!!
Me
You’re mean about baking.
Dancing Queen Jules
Deliciousness cannot be rushed!!
Me
You said you were going to be fifteen minutes. It has been thirty.
And I’m just sitting here staring around Mom and Dad’s kitchen, missing them. Hurry up.
Dancing Queen Jules
You could come help, you know!!
Me
YOU TOLD ME TO HEAD ON OVER AND GET THE KITCHEN READY
Because Mom and Dad’s oven takes a million years to preheat!
Dancing Queen Jules
Boo. I was hoping you forgot.
Me
Stop texting and do whatever it’s taking you so long to do.
Dancing Queen Jules
I’ll be there in ten!!
I set my phone down on my parents’ kitchen counter, glancing at the oven. It’s a super nice one, fancy and expensive, because my mom loves to bake and they figured they were retired and settled here permanently so why not?
Juliet wanted to come over here and do our baking rather than overexert our poor little kitchen again, and I kind of don’t blame her. So here I am, several days after visiting Crow Point, missing my parents and trying not to think about Felix Caine.
Carrot cake! I should think about carrot cake instead.
It’s my favorite. My mom makes it for me every year on my birthday, and I always eat a corner piece with more of the cream cheese frosting than my arteries probably approve of. But I’ve never actually made one of these cakes myself, and I’d like to. Life is too short to eat your favorite dessert only on your birthday or on special occasions.
I am a special occasion. We all are. Our days should be as joyful as we can make them—and sometimes that means baking cake on a random weekend in August. I’m going to have to make myself one next year when my birthday rolls around anyway, because my parents will still be gone. Why not practice?
Thinking about cake is all well and good, but wouldn’t you rather worry about your brother’s best friend? my traitorous brain whispers, and I sigh.
It’s not that I’m worried, but…I’m not not worried, either. I’m starting to actively look forward to hanging out with Felix. And now he knows I liked him. He also knows that I interned at the Gazette. He’s been totally cool about all that, but what if he finds the article I wrote? He’ll know it was about him.
My own version of How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days —an article titled “How to Get Over a Playboy (After You’ve Already Wasted Too Much Time).” He might laugh if he reads it, but he also might be hurt, because I was not as kind as I should have been.
I regret writing it. I regret it big time. And even though he already knows I had a crush on him, I don’t want him to see what I said.
To kill time while I wait for Juliet—and to take my mind off my worries—I begin digging around in the cupboards and drawers for all the things we’ll need. Two aprons, both in well-loved prairie florals, as well as mixing bowls, a spatula, and what I’m pretty sure is a cake pan. It’s glass, but it’s not a pie plate, and I’m not sure what else it could be.
I don’t know. Like I said, I can burn water.
I set it on the counter anyway, even though I’m not sure it’s what we’ll end up using. Juliet’s going to have to educate me about all that. Then I pull out my phone and force myself to make the call I’m thinking about.
I’m going to prove to myself that everything is fine and normal with Felix—that I’m not developing feelings for him again, that we didn’t have a moment the other night.
Even more than that, I’m going to prove to myself that I’m still able to ride Betsy. That what happened was a fluke. At very least, I want to move in the right direction; making plans should help, right?
Felix answers on the second ring.
“What’s up, Sunshine?” he says, his voice echoing slightly like I’m on speaker. “You miss me?”
“No,” I say, my lips quirking. “I want to set up a motorcycle date so I can knock another item off my list.”
Because aside from my Betsy issues, I’m also a little concerned about this list of mine. I’m learning how to bake a cake today, which I really want to do. I got a pet fish, whom I absolutely adore —I snicker as the line from It Takes Two flits through my mind—and yet somehow, despite these accomplishments, I don’t feel…well, accomplished.
Why not? Why don’t I feel like I’m making progress when I clearly am? I want—I just want— something.
It’s the same feeling I had the day of the motorcycle incident, a tangle of confusion creeping over me. I still can’t make heads or tails of that bundle of emotions.
What do I want?
And suddenly, from nowhere at all, a recent memory pops into my head, the words I said to Felix echoing back as though I’m now speaking them to myself: Who do you want at your bedside when you die, anyway? Your bros? Your homies?
Who do I want at my bedside when I die? Not my bros or my homies, obviously. But…my pet fish? My carrot cake?
No. Not them either.
My heart thumps uncomfortably as the answer hits me: My people. I want my people surrounding me. My parents and sisters and brother. My friends. And…
A husband. Children. Grandchildren. Great-grandchildren.
I want it all. I want progress— real progress. What is life if not progression? In nature, stagnation invites rot and decay. It’s the flowing water that stays clean.
I don’t think humans were meant to be stagnant creatures. We’re so alive, so full of motion; maybe that energy is supposed to propel us forward.
Good. The word whispers into my mind, in a voice very much like my mother’s. This is good.
“India?”
Felix’s concerned voice yanks me out of my thoughts, and I startle.
“Huh?”
“Lost you there for a minute,” he says, and I can picture him tilting his head, his golden hair falling over his forehead. “Is our connection okay? I’m driving.”
“No, that was my bad, sorry.”
“You okay?” he says after a second’s pause.
“Yes,” I say as something surges inside me, something excited, determined. I know what my next big step is going to be. I don’t know how I’ll make it happen, but at least I have the direction. I pace the kitchen and go on, “I’m good. Sorry. Got lost in thought.”
A burst of laughter travels down the line and warms me like sunshine as I continue my ambling pace around the kitchen.
“Glad to hear I’m so boring that you immediately space out when I call,” he says, but I can hear his smile. “So the motorcycle ride?”
“Yep,” I say. “How’s sometime this week, assuming the weather’s good?”
“This week is great,” he says easily.
“Perfect. I’ll—” I’m distracted, though, when I hear the door from the garage open. I roll my eyes.
“It took you long enough,” I call to Juliet. “I have the oven heating and the dishes we’ll need.” Then I grab the glass pan I set out. “Is this a cake pan?”
Juliet doesn’t answer, but I hear her slow footsteps crossing the laundry room.
“Hang on, Felicia,” I say into the phone. “Juliet! Come—” But I break off when a head peeks into the kitchen, followed by a torso.
It’s not Juliet. It’s not even a woman. It’s a man —someone I’ve never seen before in my life. He’s wearing all black from what I can see—black shirt, black baseball cap turned backward, glasses with black square frames—and an intense frown as his eyes land on me.
The pit of my stomach opens up as my heart plummets straight down; I back away automatically, stopping only when I run into the counter. My fingers curl more tightly around the heavy cake pan as the man steps further into the room, revealing a worn pair of jeans.
Crap. There is a strange man dressed in black in my parents’ house—and he’s huge. Taller than Cy, taller than Felix even, and he’s glaring at me, moving closer?—
I scream.
I am not an alarmist. I am not a panicker. But right now, I scream. It escapes about the time I see him reaching for the knife block; my phone tumbles from my hand and clatters loudly on the floor. I shriek again when, from behind me, another scream sounds, followed by the sound of many things hitting the ground at once. I whirl around to find Juliet, her eyes wide, our baking supplies at her feet—a whisk, a sandwich bag of now-broken eggs, and a bag of flour that has split and sent a poof of white dust into the air.
And look. Of the four Marigold siblings, some of us are better at handling crises than others. Juliet is our precious (twenty-four-year-old) baby and we love her, but she should not be allowed to make critical decisions in an emergency.
Unfortunately, we haven’t yet found a way to stop her.
She screams again, but this time it’s more of a war cry that clearly alarms the intruder—his brows twist as his hand is halfway to the knives. Time stops as Juliet then does exactly what I’m praying she won’t do: she rushes at the man, empty handed, half his size, and completely devoid of martial arts skills.
She charges at him.
Only she trips over all the baking supplies that are now scattered on the floor, so down, down, down Juliet goes, landing in the flour, and I don’t have time to see if she’s okay, because my fight-or-flight is blaring at me?—
So I do the only thing I can think of. I rush forward, raise the cake pan as high as I can, and smash it into the side of the intruder’s head.
He blinks, stunned, and then falls to the floor with an almighty crash and a jingle-jangle as something falls from his hands.
Things go from bad to worse very, very quickly.
“Who is that?” Juliet says as she scrambles to her feet, her eyes wide, her voice high-pitched and panicky. “India—who is that? Did we kill him?!”
Something sick and swooping explodes in my chest. Did I kill him?
“He isn’t dead,” I say as I look at the guy sprawled in the middle of my parents’ kitchen— please don’t be dead. Even if you’re a robber, please don’t be dead. Panic of my own is slithering up my throat, and my heart is trying to crack my ribs.
A sob erupts from Juliet, and I look at her just in time to see tears streaming from her animal-wild eyes, her phone to her ear.
“No!” I shout, reaching toward her. “Juliet, don’t?—”
But it’s too late. She’s already speaking into the phone around her great, shuddering sobs. “Ror—hurry”—she gasps for breath as the flour begins to settle—“I think we killed a guy?—”
“He’s not dead!” I say loudly as an odd roaring sounds in my ears, or maybe it’s all in my head. I nudge the man with my foot, but he doesn’t stir. “He’s just unconscious.”
I’m bluffing. I have no idea if he’s unconscious. But I cannot believe I have the power to kill someone with a glass pan. I simply will not believe something so ridiculous.
And then another, more horrible idea occurs to me: What if he’s a new tenant?
“Oh, no,” I say. “Oh no, oh no, oh no—” I whirl on Juliet. “What if he’s a tenant?”
“Did we kill the tenant?” Juliet says through her tears, and her phone falls to the floor as her hands begin to shake even worse.
This is bad. This is so, so bad.
“Why was he even in here without telling someone—” Juliet sobs from behind me as I move closer to the body of the guy in black.
Is it safe to check his pulse? Probably, right? Will I even be able to feel it over the pounding of my own blood?
“—probably had a wife and kids ? —”
“Juliet!” I snap, losing my patience as I turn to glare at her. “Get it together!”
She clamps her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide, and then she nods frantically, trying to hold in her impossibly loud wails so I can think.
She’s violently emotional, but she’s also very self-aware.
“I’m going to check his pulse,” I breathe, and Juliet gives another vigorous nod; her body is still shaking with sobs, but she’s blessedly silent.
I creep closer, lowering myself slowly and praying harder than I’ve ever prayed to anyone for anything—my arm shakes as I stretch it toward the man’s neck, my hand trembling visibly even when I touch his skin. I startle at the warmth but press firmly anyway, just beneath his jaw, hunting for the thud-thud-thud , and?—
“There!” I say as I feel it, finally, pushing at my fingertips. Tears spring to my eyes, a knot rising in my throat, and I don’t even care. “He’s alive— he’s alive. ”
The faintly flour-filled gulp of air I pull in feels like the first I’ve taken in the last five minutes, and I suck in more, greedy, my vision swimming as my head floats.
He’s alive. He’s alive. He’s alive.
I jump, clambering to my feet again as Aurora bursts into the kitchen, seemingly out of nowhere, as short of breath as I am. Her eyes find the body on the floor—the living body—and then she turns to me.
“Did you kill him?” she says.
“No!” I say, still inhaling hungry gulps of oxygen. “No.”
“Because if you did”—she eyes the man on the floor again, her face deadly serious—“we need a plan.”
“I didn’t!” I say.
“Well, somebody did something,” she says, skeptical now. She nudges the guy with her foot.
“I mean ”—I glare at her—“that he isn’t dead. He’s just unconscious. I hit him with the cake pan.”
“Like Rapunzel; good call,” she says with a brisk nod. “Who is he? What was he doing here?”
“I have no idea,” I say, biting my lip. “I’ve never seen him before. I was just here waiting for Juliet, and he showed up. He was coming toward me, and he looked like he was reaching for a knife.” I look back and forth between Aurora and Juliet, whose hands are still clamped over her mouth. At least she’s not crying anymore. “Ror, what if he’s a new tenant?”
“Mom would have told us he was coming,” Aurora says, but she looks unsure.
“Should we call an ambulance?”
“Are you kidding?” she says, putting her hands on her hips now and shooting me a disbelieving look. “No way. What if you get arrested?”
Holy crap. Am I going to be arrested?
Next to us, Juliet begins to cry again.
“No,” Aurora says now. She shakes her head. “Nope.” Then she pulls out her phone and makes a call. I don’t stop her, because unlike Juliet, she keeps a cool head in a crisis, so I trust her decision-making skills.
“Hey,” she says a couple seconds later. “You worked as an EMT in college, right? You probably have a first-aid kit, yeah?” She pauses, listening, her eyes flicking to the guy on the floor. “Okay. We need help. It’s an emergency. We’re at my parents’ place—and don’t tell Cy.” She listens again, nods, and then says, “Yeah. Hurry. Bye.”
I crouch down by the body, giving him a little shake. “We should call an ambulance,” I say. The relief I felt at finding this man’s pulse is giving way to panic once more.
“No,” Aurora says decisively. “Poppy will be here in one minute; she was already in the car. Let her look at him first.” Then she pins me and Juliet with a look. “And we need to get our stories straight—just in case.”
Juliet speaks for the first time in several minutes. “Just in case what? ” she says, her voice tremulous.
“Yeah,” I say as my heart lurches again. “Just in case what?”
Juliet’s wide eyes fill with more tears. “I’m not a good liar.”
This is correct; she is not a good liar.
“Calm down, Jules—just calm down, ” Aurora says with a bite of impatience.
“I’m trying,” Juliet says as tears stream down her cheeks. “I’m trying!”
“Try harder,” Aurora snaps, which is of course very helpful.
But this, apparently, is exactly what Juliet needs to hear. “Try harder,” she repeats breathlessly, nodding like a bobblehead. “Okay. Try harder.”
“There’s no story,” I say to Aurora. “He was in our house, I hit him. I’ve never seen him before in my life. He was reaching for a knife. It was self-defense.” I swallow and then add, “Right?”
But Aurora rolls her eyes. “Not necessarily. Didn’t you hear about that guy who went to prison because he killed the guy who broke into his house to rob him?”
“What?” I say with a frown, my insides still jittery. “That’s not a thing.”
Aurora waves this away. “I don’t know—there are laws about it. But?—”
We freeze and turn together at the sound of the front door flying open, and two seconds later Poppy rushes into the kitchen, followed by?—
“You traitor!” Aurora gasps to Poppy as Cyrus storms in after her, his brows low, his face rigid.
“He was in the car with me,” Poppy says apologetically. She hurries to the body on the floor, kneeling down and swinging a large first-aid kit from off her shoulder. “What happened?”
“I hit him over the head,” I say as my stomach churns.
“Who is he?” Cyrus says through clenched teeth.
“We don’t know.” The words come out as little more than a whisper. “He just?—”
“India?”
The shout comes from out of the room, from the direction of the front door—and I blink as Felix appears, also out of breath, looking for all the world like he ran here. His face is pink, his golden hair mussed, his eyes frantic.
“Felicia?” I say blankly as he staggers into the kitchen.
“You—we were on the phone—and then you screamed, and the line went dead,” he pants, clutching his side. “And the front door was wide open?—”
“I—did you run?” I say.
“Of course not, I was in the car.” He covers the distance between us in several long strides, completely ignoring my siblings and Poppy—he puts his hands briefly on my cheeks, his gaze roving over me. “You’re okay?” he gasps, moving his hands from my face to my shoulders and stepping back to take the rest of me in.
I swat his hands away, but he ignores this, reaching for my shoulders again.
“Fel—”
“Just—hang on, ” he grits out impatiently as he spins me around, inspecting every inch of me. “You’re okay? Everything is fine?”
But by the time I’m facing him again, he must be able to see that I’m unharmed, because he gives me a weak nod and finally lets his arms drop to his sides again. “You’re okay.”
Then he bends over, putting his hands on his knees and inhaling deeply as he tries to catch his breath.
There’s silence in the kitchen for the space of about five seconds; then, finally, Cyrus’s voice explodes between us.
“Would someone please tell me what on earth is going on?”