11 Kimmy
Margaret's hug was as warm as the buttery kitchen light. It smothered me a little too much.
"Kimmy!" Katrina called, rushing to hug me next.
I offered a smile. My posture felt unyielding, as if I'd been built of glass, but I hugged my sister anyway.
This used to feel natural. Easy. Now there was a distance between us that had nothing to do with physical space.
"Jazz, come say hi!" Katrina chirped, then whispered excitedly like no one in this tiny kitchen would hear us. "I've been wanting you to meet my boyfriend forever."
"I hope he's better than the previous one," I joked, referring to the guy who broke up with her by dining and dashing. She'd been stuck with a generous bill that night.
Jazz swaggered in from the family room, flexing every muscle like it was a talent show.
"You must be the younger sister, Kimberly," he said, clearly aware of the inner workings of our family.
"Kimmy is fine."
He offered a hand for a shake. I didn't take it.
The decorations spilled cheer from every corner of the house, all bright ribbons and balloons that made me feel like I didn't belong. My forced laugh scattered, thin and nervous, above the happy din as Margaret tried to involve me into every conversation.
Katrina fussed over her hair, turning her head to catch the light in a million flattering ways.
She wore a dress that sparkled with every movement.
Jazz followed, setting the table with the exaggerated carefulness of someone who'd never chipped a nail.
Two other foster sisters, Rachel and June, laughed together, probably some inside jokes only they knew.
They were the same age and a few years older than Katrina and me.
Margaret fostered them together, so they had their own little world inaccessible to us.
"Long time no see, sis!" June waved, her designer watch glinting.
I nodded. "Wow, everyone's really..." I grasped for the word. It was hard to say it. "Grown up."
"It's been ages, Kimmy," Katrina gushed.
That much was true. Now that we all had our own lives, we only got together a few times a year. The obligatory Thanksgiving and Christmas. Maybe some other holiday in summer.
"You'd think you were employed by the FBI or something, considering how rarely you call," Rachel said, taking a seat at the table.
Katrina handed Jazz a plate. "When was the last time we all saw you? What are you doing these days?" Her questions landed like soft punches. Jazz gave a lopsided grin, pushing a drink toward me with a light casualness of a big brother.
"Still planning weddings and doing that influencer stuff?" June asked, arching an eyebrow.
I forced myself to meet her gaze.
"She's not an influencer," Katrina said. "She works with them."
"Kimmy has a new job now," Margaret chimed in.
"Oh really?" Rachel seemed surprised. "What is it?"
"Same thing. Coordinating events. Just doing most of it from home," I replied.
No point in dragging the inevitable. Sooner or later, everyone would find out I wasn't with Evernight Events. "Crazy busy with a big project these past few months."
"From home?" June sounded surprised. "I thought you liked doing that social butterfly thing."
"Social butterfly doesn't work, June. She just flutters around looking pretty," Katrina corrected her, nodding at Jazz with a kind of stare that meant something only the two of them understood.
"Wasn't that her job?" June pressed on.
A dictionary from Margaret's shelf landed in Katrina's hand, compliments of Jazz. "Look it up, big sister, who apparently spent all that money on higher education for nothing."
"Screw you, smart ass." June shoved the dictionary back at Katrina while the rest of us laughed.
I was glad that we moved on from the topic of my changing jobs.
I couldn't stomach more questions. I didn't know how to explain that the only company that had the guts to hire me was a small, barely surviving event coordinating business with no main office.
They couldn't afford one. Instead, we spent most of our time online and on the phone.
It paid the bills. That was the only thing that mattered at this point.
Jazz popped a can of beer open after returning the dictionary to its place. "Sounds like a sweet gig, Kimmy," he said. "No need to get out of the house."
"True, true," Rachel agreed. "Gas is so expensive these days." She liked to highlight her seniority by bragging about the times when things were dirt cheap.
I sometimes joked that it made her sound like a grandma.
She sometimes cursed me out for this. But we loved each other. As much as two people from broken families can.
No one touched the topic of my job anymore.
Margaret floated in and out. She hung up coats, passed drinks, refilled dishes. The table was a festive mess, colors and tastes bleeding together. Katrina and Jazz exchanged a conspiratorial glance. "Kimmy, you're staying for dessert, right? Mom baked a cake!"
For a flicker of a moment, I was transported back in time and I saw the girl I used to be, blending in without effort, playing along. But now...
It wasn't easy. It was something I couldn't pretend my way into anymore. The more they pressed, the more I felt myself slipping. The instincts screamed for me to get away.
I didn't belong.
I was dirty and used and had no business being here.
My forced laugh scattered every time I tried to participate, thin and nervous, above the happy chatter.
Katrina tugged on Jazz's sleeve, drawing his attention like a diva calling the paparazzi.
"I've got to blow out the candles." I watched them, puzzled at their ease.
Jazz flexed like a superhero reaching for the stars, bringing them down just for her.
It seemed like a dance they'd practiced for weeks.
Like nothing I'd ever have. I lingered at the edges, letting their joy wash over me, knowing this was as close to happiness as I could get.
June recorded a video and Rachel took photos.
When all candles were dealt with, Jazz threw a big arm around Katrina's shoulders. His effortless intimacy was almost impossible to watch. She giggled and rolled her eyes, but it was infectious. It swept through the room like wildfire.
As Jazz poured a drink for Katrina, Margaret watched him closely, nodding with approval. The warmth was everywhere. It pulled me in, dragged me under, but it felt foreign, almost unbearable.
After the cake, Margaret caught me alone in the kitchen where I scoured her cabinets for some Tylenol.
"I'm so glad you came, dear," she said.
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Are you feeling alright?" she asked, seeing me going through her pill bottles.
"Headache."
Margaret pushed the bottles around and retrieved the medication from the very back of the cabinet. Then she poured me some water into her mug with a faded picture of Snoopy and the words World's Best Mom. We'd given it to her on her sixtieth.
"You should be dating too," she suddenly ventured.
"Where did that come from, Mom?"
"Nowhere." She shrugged. "You're young and pretty and very smart. Is it a crime to want a nice young man for my daughter?"
I wanted to make a joke, say that she and my therapist probably talked about me behind my back.
But I held it in. Margaret didn't know about my therapy or about what had happened three years ago.
I wasn't sure if I'd be able to keep it that way forever.
But the chances she would randomly think of requesting police records of the case or just look up my name online were extremely low.
She didn't pry into our lives beyond an occasional check-in.
And the case wasn't publicized anywhere.
No one remembered except for the handful of powerful people in this city, who made sure I'd never work in any reputable event planning boutique because they erased me from existence completely to cover up their asses.
"Well, I gave it a shot, Mom." I tried to keep my voice casual. "Unfortunately, most guys I went out with were scumbags."
"Then don't date a scumbag," she said, unflinching. "Find someone like Jazz." She jerked her chin toward the family room where everyone was gathered.
I laughed.
"Silly girl." She shook her head.
"Mom, that guy is a show-off."
Margaret moved closer, her arm around me. "And he loves her."
My heart felt thin and fragile under her touch, but for the first time in many many months I didn't pull away. I accepted the warmth she offered. And it felt good. It felt real, even if the feeling was fleeting.
The kitchen was bright, the afternoon sun turning the lace curtains to a sheer of sparkles. Outside, I could see the neighbor's kid skateboarding in the driveway, falling and getting back up like it was his job. I envied his resilience. Their bulldog was chasing after the kid.
"Yes, the man has his flaws," Margaret went on. "Like you said, he's flashy, a tad loud. But did you see how he is around her?"
She was right. Jazz filled up Katrina's drink and made sure she always had food and gave her napkins and salt, and she didn't need to ask him for any of that. He volunteered every time.
"Some people can seem strange to the world," Margaret said, her voice low and sure. "But to the ones that matter, that person could be the world."
Later that evening, when everyone was getting ready to leave, I stood on Margaret's back porch, hands deep in my jacket pockets. The world had slipped into a quieter color and the air felt alive, cool, and honest.
I watched the shadows from the trees creep across the backyard and listened to the sounds of the neighborhood.
Someone somewhere was grilling—the smell of lighter fluid and sweet smoke wafted over from another block.
The neighbor's kid had gone inside along with the dog, but the skateboard sat in the driveway, wheels still spinning just a little.
I closed my eyes. For a few heartbeats, I just breathed.
The feeling from earlier—the one Margaret had created with her half hug—was still there. Not happiness, not exactly, but lightness, a space where happiness might one day grow. I tried to find the flaw, the catch, the hook that would make it vanish.
I couldn't.
Instead, I found myself thinking about the man on the phone. Operative Seven. The way he'd asked, "Are you in danger?" like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like danger could be fixed, like it was a loose tile or a leaky pipe.
His voice had been calm, almost rehearsed. But under that, I thought I heard something else. Like he was annoyed I'd called, but also…surprised? The memory unsettled me, but not in the old dreadful way.
I realized, with a kind of slow shock, that I didn't feel afraid of him. Not even a little.
My phone buzzed. I dug it out of my pocket and thumbed open the message. Disappointment filled my chest. I wasn't sure what—or whom—I'd expected.
It was Geneva.
Dad's going home! Mom is over the moon. Be back Tuesday. Can you hold the fort a few more days?
I typed out an affirmative.
You're a lifesaver. Love you, Kimmy.