Chapter 20
Electra
Way too bright sunlight assaults my tired eyes. “Rise and shine, sleepyhead.”
Relief and disappointment collide within me. Funny that I experience both for the same reason. That reason being that I didn’t go home with Cillian.
“Who the hell shines when they rise?” I grumble to Calanthe. “Like, seriously, who came up with that expression?”
The bed dips. “Your parents are here. I managed to buy you two extra hours by inviting them to brunch at Tarian’s.”
I sigh. “What time is it?”
“Three-thirty. In the afternoon,” she adds, as though I could confuse sunlight with moonlight. “I brought you a carrot cake muffin.” She hands me a dainty rose-patterned plate topped with a muffin so puffy it reminds me of the mushroom lamp from last night.
“I hate vegetables in my desserts.” I prop my back against the tufted headboard of the bed I deem more mine than hers, considering the number of nights I stay over at Lisa’s.
“But you love carrot cake.”
“No. I tolerate it if your mom bakes it, but I don’t love it.”
“You ate three slices on Fiona’s birthday.”
“Didn’t realize you were counting. Besides, skipping someone’s birthday cake is bad luck.”
Calanthe rolls her eyes.
I glance at the closed bedroom door behind her. “I hope they didn’t come over to convince me to forgive Ines, because my hatred’s got generational plans.”
Instead of calling me difficult and stubborn, she pats my knee. “Ines swears she didn’t realize your mother was pregnant. She genuinely thought your mom came to extort Gael.”
“I’m still never forgiving her,” I say, sitting up and grabbing the muffin.
“I’m not either, but at least she didn’t deliberately let you suffer.”
“She could’ve checked if my bio mom was bluffing, and she didn’t.”
“You’re right,” Calanthe says, voice softened by wariness.
In between mouthfuls of muffin, I say, “I’m only eating because I’m starving.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t press in her dimples.
My stomach grumbles like a wild beast as I demolish my very late breakfast—or rather, lunch. “So why are Mom and Dad here?”
“Because they love you.” After a beat, Calanthe adds, “You’re not short on people who love you.”
My throat clogs, and it takes extra effort to swallow. As I set the plate down, I say, “I’m ready to discuss your conversation with Cillian.”
Her eyes begin to glitter as though every copper speck were absorbing the sunlight and refracting it. “Was it the mention of people who love you that made him crop up in your mind?”
“No.” I pick a crumb off the rumpled comforter and flick it onto the plate. “Mal’s convinced the guy’s not with me for my sunny disposition. And, well…what do you think?”
Calanthe’s smile remains intact. “About your sunny disposition?”
“Not about my disposition. Obviously. Everyone knows I’m more ‘thunderous with a chance of volatile hail’ than ‘clear with a chance of naive joviality.’ What I’m asking is… Do you think Cillian’s after my money?”
Her outrage reshapes her expression. “Absolutely not! Did Mal actually say that?”
“Yeah.”
She takes my hand. “Cillian wouldn’t let anyone pay last night, and we racked up quite the bill.”
“Because you ordered everything on the menu that contained tomatoes.” In other words, everything save for dessert. “You should really consult a doctor about your recent lycopene addiction.”
She gives my fingers a squeeze. “Bill aside, the guy’s obsessed with you. He said he’s never felt this way before about a woman, like you get him in a way that no one ever has, and he said this while compelled.”
“He could still be playing a long con.”
“I asked him. He’s not.” When my lips pull to one side in skepticism, she says, “Want me to ask Tarian to root through his mind?”
“No. Too risky.” Tarian’s power is so great that even a stray, hostile thought about Atlantis could permanently damage— “Shit!”
Calanthe startles. “What?”
“I forgot to cancel breakfast.”
“You mean the one with your parents and your boyfriend?”
“Tell me he didn’t show up.” My heart feels like it’s grown claws and is skittering around my ribs.
“He showed up.”
I shut my eyes and tap the back of my skull against the headboard. “And…?”
“And I’ll let your parents tell you the rest.” She stands and walks toward the door, unrolling the sleeves of the oversized button-down she wears over a white tank top and cut-off shorts.
“Give me a hint,” I plead, but Calanthe leaves me hanging.
Ugh.
I wash up and pull on yesterday’s clothes before heading into the living area, where Fiona is completing a Wordle booklet while Lisa and Calanthe are serving my parents tea at the white marble kitchen island.
“Honey…” Dad gets up from the counter chair and holds his arms out while Mom studies me like she’s unsure whether I’m about to bolt.
When I allow my father to fold his arms around me, Mom heaves out an audible breath, her lashes beating wildly, whisking away her relief. I may be a massive grudge holder, but not when it comes to the people I love.
“I’m so sorry, bug,” he murmurs into my hair.
“It’s okay, Dad. Not your fault.”
His embrace tightens, especially when I finally lace my arms around his slim middle. Another set of arms comes around me. I don’t need to look over my shoulder to know it’s Mom.
“Better than a Hallmark movie…” I hear Fiona say.
As I extract myself from my parents’ hug, I meet the old lady’s brilliant grin.
“Guess who they got to grill this mornin’?” Fiona is clearly on a mission to rattle me.
I cross my arms. “I heard.” I am dying to ask how it went, but my tongue feels like a slug, and the inside of my mouth like it’s packed with mulch.
Goddess below, I’m an independent twenty-year-old woman. Why am I so distraught? And why do I crave, slash fear, my parents’ opinion on my fake boyfriend? Keyword: fake.
“That’s a very sweet boy you found,” Mom begins, removing about ten tons from my shoulder blades.
“I found,” Fiona says with a waggle of her brows.
I side-eye her, but that only adds to her delight.
Since my father remains mute, Mom elbows him in the ribs with a hissed, “Yosef.”
“What?” he says. “Electra’s my little girl. No man is ever going to be good enough.”
“Callie, tell me you’re filming this?” Fiona calls out.
“With my ears and eyes, Fi,” Callie replies, tapping her temple.
“Mister Grumpy here approves,” Mom finally says, wrapping an arm around Dad’s back. “Especially after he found out that Cillian made those scones. You should’ve heard them talk about baking and cooking. Nonstop.”
“I’m not crazy that he lives in his car, though,” Dad grumbles.
“In a camper,” I correct.
Dad hefts a brow as though that made his living arrangements any better.
“It’s not forever, Yosef,” Mom says.
Fiona sets her Wordle booklet on the sofa. “In no time, he’ll be movin’ in with Elle, and—”
“No!” Blood stabs Dad’s suntanned temple, inflating his veins. “No.”
“Honey,” Mom murmurs again.
“What?” he snaps.
“Elle is twenty, not ten. Besides, we moved in together when we were twenty,” Mom reminds him. “So did Diego and Dorian.”
“It’s not the same thing,” he retorts.
I finally find my voice. “Why isn’t it the same thing? Because Cillian isn’t an Atlantean?”
Mom shakes her head. “He doesn’t care about that. At least not until it becomes serious. What he cares about is it becoming serious.”
“They can date without moving in together,” Dad says. “I’m happy to pay to put him up in an apartment of his own.”
Mom levels her eyes with my father’s tense profile. “What did he tell you when you offered that to him this morning, Yosef?”
“If he wants to date my daughter, then he’ll need to set aside his pride.”
I catch Calanthe’s stare. She mouths what looks like: “See. Not after your money.”
“If it becomes serious, Elle”—that vein is still bumping along my father’s temple—“you tell us, and we’ll get him an apartment and compel him to use it.”
“It won’t—become serious, that is,” I reassure him.
Fiona tuts. “Youth is so blind. That boy is perfect for you, Elle. Just you wait and see.” She settles back into the sofa and picks up her word games, repeating, “Just you wait and see.”
I’d find my father’s paling complexion amusing if I weren’t so certain Fiona was predicting what she wanted to see and not what would come to pass. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Cillian as a person, but he was far from the man of my dreams.
My gaze strays to the round foyer table on which thrones a bouquet. Though not peonies today, they remind me of the first time I crossed paths with him. Fiona had found his faceplanting adorable while I’d rolled my eyes and murmured that he needed stronger lenses.
Turns out, his vision was fine.
Turns out, someone liked me enough to trip over their own feet.
Turns out, I didn’t completely dislike that someone’s attention.
I think my mother notices. Calanthe definitely does. Neither mentions it in front of my father, who’s slowly regaining his upbeat demeanor thanks to Lisa entreating him for help in the kitchen.
When Diego and Dorian come to fetch my parents to drive them to the airstrip, Mom insists on dropping me off on the way.
“I honestly prefer to have dinner here rather than all by myself at the apartment,” I say.
“What your mom’s too polite to put into words is that you desperately need a shower and something clean to wear.” Calanthe gives me a shove.
I might not smell like a flower shop, but I’m nowhere near public restroom territory. “I’ll shower here and—”
“Just Uber back.” Calanthe tugs on her shorts, forcing them to sit lower on her hips. “We’ll wait for you to eat. Plus, your dad made this panzanella salad that is to die for—I had some when I picked them up for lunch. You need to bring me the whole bowl.”
“Let me guess… There are tomatoes inside?”
Calanthe shoots me a crooked grin. “Yep.”
I shake my head. “You’re so weird.”
She blows me a kiss. “Love you too.”
Mom smiles to herself as she spears her fingers through mine and draws me down the stairs. “I love your friendship.”
“I know. I’m really lucky.”
“It’s not luck. It’s fate.” Mom squeezes my hand. “You know my take on life—the good, the bad…everything happens for a reason.”
As we weave through the busy Boston streets packed with tourists and returning college students, I tally up all the good and the bad in my life.
Naturally, my mind strays to Cillian, who showed up right as Malachi wrecked me. And who’s kept showing up since. I wouldn’t say the dance coach has mended my heart, but he’s handled it with unexpected gentleness.
Even though I’m not looking forward to returning to my empty home, I am looking forward to retrieving my phone and seeing if he’s texted me. He must have. Especially after having had breakfast with my parents.
As I stride into the lobby, I smile to myself, imagining him sweating through my father’s interrogation. I keep smiling—right up until I open my front door and realize the Penthouse isn’t empty.