Chapter 9
VIVIAN
Ashower at the end of a day has always been my ideal way to unwind. Some people love a hot bath, but I get bored. For me, the water needs to be hot enough to exfoliate my skin, and blasting me hard enough so it can count as therapy.
I stand under the showerhead a second longer than necessary, eyes closed, letting the spray drum against my shoulders like it’s applauding me. Which, honestly, it should be. Especially for today.
“That,” I say to absolutely no one, “was a good session.”
I reach for the shampoo, working it through my hair, replaying the afternoon in little flashes.
The girls crowded around the table. The way they’d leaned in when I showed them how to loop the thread.
The tiny, serious crease between one girl’s brows that disappeared the second her bracelet came together.
And the trading. Oh, man, the way they got into the trading!
They’d been so earnest about it. Careful. Intentional. Like the words mattered. Like giving one away meant something.
By the time I rinse out the conditioner, I’m smiling. Properly smiling. The kind that shows your teeth and settles in your chest and makes everything feel a little lighter.
They’d left buzzing. Arms full of color and tiny words and new inside jokes already forming. Win.
I reach for the tap, turn the water off, and step out onto the bath mat. Wrapping a towel around myself, I’m startled when my stomach grumbles.
“Pizza,” I murmur, patting my own shoulder as I grab a second towel for my hair. “You’ve earned that pizza.”
I deserve tonight. There’s a box of something cheesy that is already on its way to my home now, slightly too greasy if I have my way, and my notebook is spread out on the coffee table for planning next week’s session.
Maybe we start on the charms. Maybe we work on the trophy design the whole time.
I don’t care, as long as it’s something that builds on what they started today.
Something that keeps that spark going. For them, and for me.
My phone buzzes on the counter, and I lean over to check it, still blotting water from my arms.
Gran:
Atlantic City is hot! Staying another day, maybe two. I’ll see you mid-week.
Love you. Don’t bankrupt yourself and watch out for bad decisions and buffet dinners.
Not necessarily in that order.
I toss the phone down and reach for my lotion.
My grandmother has always been a force of nature, but as she’s gotten older, she’s hit a new level in the video game she calls her life.
Sullivan’s Fine Jewelry got its reputation in Alexandria because of her and my grandfather and their work ethic.
She’s always so proud to tell people she’s designed holiday gifts for at least three of the past First Ladies.
My grandfather helped her get the business started, but let’s be clear: it was all her.
Until I came along, that is, and if we’re being honest, I think I’m just an extension.
The quiet settles in around me as I smooth the lotion over my arms, my legs, my shoulders, a citrus scent filling the air. It really was a good day. Now, I’ve got a productive evening ahead, and no one wants me for anything at all. Nowhere to be. I am golden.
I’m busy rubbing a knot out in the bottom of my foot when the one person I don’t need to think about while I’m in my bathroom wearing a towel pops into my head like an unwelcome guest.
My hand stills mid-motion. Nope. Absolutely not. Not Ty and not right now.
I pick up speed, like I can outrun the thought.
The second I let myself linger on it, it’s not just Ty.
It’s how adorable and awkward he was trying to navigate a room of young teenagers.
Little does he know that when we’re young, we’re like newborn vampires.
It’s how he let me step in and help bridge the two girls who were bickering, but it’s not just his coaching skills.
It’s his hand around mine earlier, steady and warm while I showed one of the girls how to tie off her bracelet. It’s the way he’d crouched down without thinking, bringing himself to their level like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It’s the look he gave me when I handed him his bracelet. Peace. I gifted him peace and he looked at me like I was handing him an Olympic gold medal.
I press my lips together, dragging the towel through my hair a little more aggressively than needed.
I chose that word for him the same way I choose everything for everyone—read the room, find the right thing, hand it over.
I’m good at that. I’ve always been good at that.
What I don’t let myself finish thinking about is whether I’d even recognize it if someone tried to do the same for me.
“You kiss a guy out of necessity, and suddenly he’s everywhere,” I mutter. “Note to self: think before kissing anyone again. Ever. And stop thinking about him.”
Pizza. Planning. That’s the night. Not hockey players. Not confusing lip contact. Not the way his fingers had lingered for just a second too long when he’d tied that bracelet onto my wrist.
Strength. Something I obviously need right now.
My stomach does an annoying little flip.
“Absolutely not,” I tell my reflection, pointing at myself like I’m the problem here. “We are not unpacking this tonight.”
My phone starts ringing.
I grab it without looking, grateful for the interruption. My mistake.
“Hello?”
“Vivian.”
My jaw clenches automatically. I close my eyes briefly, bracing myself as I pull the phone away just long enough to check the screen.
My mother. Because apparently, the universe decided I was having too nice of an evening.
I put the phone to my ear again. “Hi.”
There’s a pause on the other end. Not long, but long enough to feel deliberate. Like she’s deciding which version of herself she’s going to share with me.
“I wasn’t sure you’d pick up.”
I lean my hip against the counter. “Well, in all fairness I didn’t look to see who was calling before I picked up. You could have been my pizza.”
“Well, at least you picked up,” she says lightly, but there’s an edge tucked underneath it.
“I’m expecting to arrive any second,” I say, keeping my tone even. “So if you could just—”
“I won’t take long.”
Another pause. Another calculated breath.
“How is the shop?” Safe question. On the surface.
“Good,” I say. “Busy. Grandma’s good, too.” Because she won’t ask, even though she should. The complications with this one run deep for both my grandmother and for me.
“Give her my love. Busy with what, exactly?”
I glance at my wrist, at the thin band of beads sitting there like it belongs.
“Workshops,” I say. “Community stuff, also selling things. You know. Jewelry and all that nonsense.”
“Hm.”
The hum says everything she doesn’t. I can practically see her expression.
The slight tilt of her head. The polite smile that never quite reaches her eyes.
I could talk in circles and serve her up a heaping helping of word salad, and she would keep that face.
It’s her Perfectionist Face that she keeps on when she’s dealing with politicians and ambassadors.
“That’s nice,” she says. “If that’s what you want to be doing.”
My grip tightens on the phone. I can feel an all too familiar conversation rearing its head, and I don’t want it. Not now, and not tonight. “It is.”
“I hate to see you limiting yourself,” she replies smoothly.
Limiting. The word lands exactly where she intends it to. Right then a beep from my phone distracts me. Glancing at the screen, I see it's my pizza driver, he’s outside. Finally, a reason to get off the phone.
I keep my voice steady as I march to the front door. “I’m not limiting myself.”
“I’m sure you don’t feel like you are.”
There’s that faux-reasonable tone of hers. The one that makes it sound like she’s agreeing with me while doing the exact opposite.
I press my lips together and pull the door open. “Why did you call?”
It’s a simple question that I toss her way as I step out onto the porch at the exact moment the delivery driver turns from his car, pizza box in hand. And then he stops.
His gaze flicks over me. The expression on his face makes me pause and take a moment to look down, and as I do, I realize the state I’m in. My old, faded blue towel wrapped around me. The very bare legs. The fact that I am very obviously not dressed for company.
I give him a look. He gives me a look.
We both know exactly what’s happening here.
“Long day?” he asks in a hushed tone, like he’s trying not to smile.
“Something like that,” I whisper back, holding out my hand for the box. “You’re my favorite person right now.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” He passes it over, still looking faintly amused. “Enjoy.”
“Oh, I will.”
In my ear, my mother is still talking.
“—just think it’s important you consider—”
“Yep. Considering,” I say flatly, rolling my eyes, shifting the pizza box to one arm. The driver snorts under his breath, like he knows exactly what kind of call this is. He then heads back to his car, still shaking his head like I’ve just made his night slightly more interesting. Lucky him.
“I’m not limiting myself,” I repeat, turning away, already half-listening again, yet also noting the sound of the front door as it clicks shut. It is a decisive sound that one can equate to the sealing of a tomb.
I freeze.
No.
No, no, no.
I balance the pizza on my hip and reach for the handle. Nothing.
Locked. Because apparently, I like to live on the edge.
“Vivian?” my mother says. “Are you even listening to me?”
I stare at the door. At my own faint reflection in the glass. At the fact that I am standing on my front porch on a towel. Barefoot. Holding a pizza. With absolutely no way inside.
My eyes close briefly.
“Well,” I say slowly, “how unfortunate.”
“What’s that?” my mother asks, immediately alert in that way she gets when she thinks she’s about to be proven right about something.
“I locked myself out.”
There’s a pause.
And then, “You did what?”