CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SYLVIE
Consciousness hovers around me, my body rousing from the deepest sleep I’ve had in years.
The telltale signs of life in motion have me stirring.
The golden hue beyond my lids, the weightiness of my body, and the muffled sounds of others living.
But I’m not ready. Everything will hurt when I open my eyes.
I curl into a ball, smash my face in the pillow, and gift myself a few more minutes of my dream state—which is simply a memory I wish I could fall into.
“You’re doing it, Sylv,” my father cheers, spotting me while I cartwheel on the balance beam. “Look at you.”
“So good, angel,” my mother praises before addressing my father. “Is this really necessary? It’s her birthday.”
“Since when have we only focused on what’s necessary?” He’s quiet while I prepare for my back handspring, but as soon as I stick it, he hoots. “Our girl is going to the Olympics.”
“She’s six, Heath. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I want her to be a kid.” She pets my sister’s head, who’s sleeping in her arms, as if to emphasize that perspective.
“What are you talking about?” He gestures to me midair in a split leap. “Look how happy she is.”
I cast a cheeky grin in her direction because I am happy, and they rarely argue.
A puff of mirthful resignation escapes her. “I can’t fight both of you. And it’s not about this.” She lowers her voice even though we’re the only ones near the balance beam. “What was the lockpicking lesson for yesterday?”
“Backup plan.” He cackles—it’s a jolly sound that ricochets all over the gym. “She’s good at that too.”
She huffs. “It’s unwise to give her those skills if we don’t want her to use them.”
“I’m giving her a piece of us,” he says, and he almost sounds sad.
“We might be living straight now, but this is who we are. I don’t want her and Flora to love a false version of me.
” There’s a long stretch while I finish my routine, but by the time I dismount, his excitement is back.
“I made a scavenger hunt for her birthday and put her present in a safe. Wait till you see how proud she’ll be when she cracks it. ”
My mother can’t help but brighten. She palms his cheek. “And how proud you’ll be.”
As if some evil force refuses to let me bask in that, I’m immediately thrown into my twenty-second birthday—the last one he was alive for.
I’m in my dorm room, talking to my father on the phone. He can’t ever chat for very long, but he always checks in, and he’s got such great energy today.
“You’re really doing it, sweetie. I knew you would.
I’m so fucking proud and so glad I’ll be there.
I’m not going to wish you a happy birthday today.
I’m planning on being home in about a month.
It’s not a sure thing, but … I got this.
We’ll do a scavenger hunt, for old times’ sake.
One last childlike birthday. And since you’ve got the Olympic Team Trials in June and you’re going to blow them away, we’ll celebrate you graduating and ruling the world. ”
“I don’t think a college education and qualifying for the Olympics are synonymous with world domination, but I’ll take it. I am Heath Jenkins’s daughter, so anything is possible.”
“You are the best parts of your mother and me.” He stalls there, and I know what’s coming. The ache is palpable. “Flora too. Give your sister a hug from me, whether she wants it or not.”
“Always,” I promise. “And I’ll wait for you to celebrate. I can be twenty-one for another month.”
“Perfect. I gotta go. I love you, Sylv.”
“Love you, Dad.”
My eyes pop open as a searing pain lances my sternum. I hate this day. I hate this week. I hate that time lessens the sharpness of his absence, but doesn’t truly heal the crater he left behind. And every year, I plummet into the depths of it again.
The ceiling fan spins, and my focus is tethered to it. The whirling rhythm is the only safe spot. Beyond that, the world is one empty vessel of my fucked-up reality.
Although my lack of pajamas debunks that theory. Last night’s reality was pretty great. Having Cash’s hands and mouth on me was practically a spiritual experience. Add in the steam and the reflection of me stark naked while he was dressed and eating me out—I’d never come so hard. Earth-shattering.
And that’s aside from him coming with me in the hallway. That was the most desired I’d ever felt.
With that guiding my thoughts, I rip my gaze from the spinning distraction and sit up in bed. Only to be mind-blown again.
The entire room is filled with—I do a quick count of the racks and come up with thirty—clothes and purses and shoes.
Amy mentioned a new wardrobe, but I seriously underestimated the meaning of that.
I crawl out of bed, grab one of Cash’s T-shirts from his closet to throw on, and peruse the attire.
They’re all my size and style. Fit for every occasion.
I certainly didn’t need this, and I’m probably going to have to tell him it’s too much, but for just a minute, I let myself jump and squeal like a little girl.
Once I disentangle myself from the clothes and accessories, I notice a cart with food on it. There’s fruit, a mimosa, a pot of coffee with cream and sugar, and a warming tray with bacon, eggs, and crème br?lée French toast that is utterly divine.
How the hell did he get all this in here without waking me up? Or maybe that is what woke me up.
As I indulge, I unfold a note next to the mimosa and read it.
Happy birthday, Sly. Cheers to the memories we’ve made and to the even better ones in store. When you look in the mirror today, remember, you are a treasure.
Yours,
Cash
I’ll give it to him; he pulls out all the stops.
The bottom of the note reminds me to get ready because I have a meeting with Axel at eleven. I check the time on my phone and see it’s already ten, so I scurry into the bathroom.
And my jaw hits the floor.
This is thirty is scrawled in lipstick on the top of the mirror, with the word mine adorning the spot where Cash made me come.
It’s ridiculous, but my cheeks flush with the recollection of everything that occurred right there.
Of course, that’s the second my phone starts buzzing in my hand with a request for a video chat. It’s my mother, so I don’t hesitate to answer in my disheveled state.
“What kind of mood are we welcoming thirty with?” she begins.
“Decent. Shocked. A little giddy.”
“Okay,” she chirps. “Then I’m going to pounce and wish you a happy birthday. I’m so grateful to call you mine, sweet girl. Now spill. You have a glow about you.”
Certain she’ll eat this up, I turn so she has my face and the massive, possessive message behind me in the frame.
“Does that say … mine?”
“Yep.”
“Was he an invited guest in that bathroom when he graffitied his territory or …”
“There may have been a brief invitation.” I prop my phone against the mirror and move to the sink to wash my face.
While I’m getting ready for the day, I fill her in on everything about last night, starting with the girls and the Underground and taking her all the way up until this morning, skipping over very few details.
Our relationship might seem strange to some. We’re best friends first and mother-daughter second. That’s partly because we had to be.
We essentially started over after my dad was sentenced, opting not to be ousted in our community for being a convict’s family.
In a situation like that, you find out fast who your friends are.
And the list was … empty. There was also a media spectacle.
Reporters camped out all over town, trying to catch a glimpse of the woman believed to be guilty but the object of my father’s steadfast devotion.
So, who could really blame people for ducking for cover?
My mother managed to re-create us so that, other than the FBI and a few of my father’s associates who kept tabs on us, no one knew who we used to be.
Using her maiden name and becoming someone else meant no one was safe to befriend though.
Not for us to tell secrets to or let down our guards.
It was my mom, me, and Flora against the world, doing everything we could to be a family my father would be proud of. Something for him to fight for.
And it was enough.
“So, let’s recap.” She drinks her coffee and pins me with a smart-ass glare from her office that doesn’t have a single thing packed up in it.
“We’ll breeze past how the man has been chasing you all over the country for months and focus solely on your birthday.
He planned an evening for you to relax, he was generous in the best way a man can be giving, he refused to let you reciprocate, he had a new wardrobe and breakfast greet you when you woke up, and he wrote mine on the bathroom mirror, but you’re not sure what he wants? ”
“No.” I pat on some moisturizing highlighter beneath my eyes.
“I know exactly what he wants. But he doesn’t.
The idea of a girlfriend—especially one he’s had to work for—is the equivalent of a shiny new thing.
He hasn’t used that word, and I doubt he could, but even if he’s eager to, the whole idea will eventually get dull.
And I’m not in a place to hold his hand while he realizes that his first attempt at a relationship is more than he can handle. ”
“He seemed certain to me. Maybe more certain than he even comprehends.”
His declaration during my fake panic attack flits through my mind. “I would never leave you on the table, Sylvie Palmer.” I need to pretend I didn’t hear it though, like I claimed.
“You just love him because he’s a Noire.” I leer at her. “Do you remember what you told me when I started dating Danny? ‘Once a player, always a player. Keep both eyes on that one.’ And I should’ve listened.”
“I do appreciate back pay on my parenting advice, but I am going in a different direction with this one. With good reason. Cash didn’t try to tell me what he thought I wanted to hear, but he also couldn’t hide how taken he was with you. He was respectful—”
“Starstruck,” I correct while applying my mascara.
“Enamored with you. And mature. When I asked Danny whether he was serious about you, he winked and said, ‘Chill, Mrs. P.’ Someone telling me to chill is a glaring red flag. I’m a delight.”
I laugh and dab on my lip gloss. “No truer words have ever been spoken.”
She dismisses my sarcasm and taps her coffee mug with her index finger, which is her working-an-angle tell.
“Let’s say, this time, I’m wrong, and Cash doesn’t have the ability to commit.
Then why not just enjoy it? You are rarely the player.
Although you had some good runs in your college days.
Summon that energy. Let him spoil you—in any way he’s willing—with the intention of moving on eventually. ”
It’s not like I haven’t debated that, but the verdict of that internal argument always comes out the same. “I don’t know if I can.”
“You like him,” she accuses from her all-knowing maternal perch.
“He’s the kind of person everyone likes. It’s not that. It’s just …” Words to explain it fail me.
“You’re getting attached. Maybe that isn’t the worst thing. On the other side of this—”
“It’s not the best either,” I cut her off because I doubted my ability to make it to the other side of this job before she told me why my father was murdered.
Now I know hope is the enemy. “More to lose. More to worry about. More disappointments. More obstacles.” A notification drops onto the screen.
“The girls are texting me. I’d better go. ”
“The girls—that’s good. Enjoy your birthday, Sylvie.”
“Wait.” I hold up my palm so she doesn’t hang up, and when she nods, I go on, “You haven’t told Flora where I am, right?”
“I promised you I wouldn’t give her specifics, but she’ll want to talk to you for your birthday.”
I gave her my new cell number, but I can’t deal today. “Can you ask her not to call?”
Her heavy exhale delivers her despondency over the whole situation. “She feels you pulling back again, and she … she wants to make it right. You can’t dodge her forever, honey.”
“I can’t trust her either.”
“I get that.”
“Okay,” I breathe. “So, please, let me have this. Just this day.”
“Of course.”
“Love you, Mom.”
“Love you, angel.”
I end the call and check the texts.
Zara: Today is your day! Girls’ lunch after your meeting with Axel?
Tessa: You can’t say no. We’re celebrating you.
Mercy: Remy’s coming, too, so it’s not only girls.
Zara: He is part of the kidnapping plan today. We showed him a video of you flying. He’s in love.
Mercy: He’ll talk your ear off about it and sing you “Happy Birthday,” but he’ll zone out when the food comes and we can have girl time.
Me: Tessa’s right. I can’t say no to any of that.
As I’m leaving Cash’s room, one more text comes through that leaves me wondering what I’m walking into.
Zara: Cash might be in full Daddy mode for your meeting. Take deep breaths. We’ll pump you full of drinks when it’s over.