“No flowers. She doesn’t like them. Says they’re a waste of money when all they do is die after a few days. Surprise her with her favorite drink, a chai latte. Or a gift card to her favorite bookstore. Something like that.”
“Got it.” Daniel smiles, and I glance away on the pretense of standing. I’ve made my decision, but damn, I’m going to need some good fucking alcohol to live with it. “Jordan.” He claps a hand on my shoulder, offering me no choice but to stop. “Thanks, man. I appreciate everything you’ve done. You’ve been a great friend.”
“Yeah, you don’t need to thank me. That’s what we do.” Desperate to go now, to put space between me and this decision I can’t come back from, I return Daniel’s pound on the shoulder and head for the locker room exit. “We’ll talk later.”
And I walk out, feeling like I just committed a prison break.
But it’s just a fantasy, a trick of the mind.
Because I can’t break free of myself.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MIRIAM
“I trust two things in this world—me and my sword. Everything and everyone else are suspect.”
—Sarafina Rose, Ravaged Lands
“Cyrus is being really cagey about this party,” I mutter to Daniel as he grasps my hand in his and guides me out of his car.
A valet in black pants, a white shirt, and a red vest accepts the keys to Daniel’s Lexus to park it who knows where as we step on the curb outside of Cyrus’s gorgeous Washington Park home. Since he and Zora started dating, I’ve visited the upscale residential neighborhood and his luxurious house several times, but it still never fails to amaze me that my sister is damn near glued at the hip to a man who liveshere. When did we—her, Levi, and me—start moving in these circles? And I haven’t decided if I want to be pinched or not.
Light pours from the windows of the home as well as the wall nearly encompassed by glass. As usual, I’m totally enamored by the beautiful winding staircase on the side of the house that leads to the upper level. It’s fanciful and dainty, a bit of unexpected whimsy, and a perfectcontrast to the limestone exterior with its slopes, angles, and arches. I love this place. My favorite detail, though? The love and unconditional welcome inside of it.
“Yes,” Daniel says, settling a palm on the middle of my back. The touch is light, polite. Friendly. The very definition of our interactions as of yet. “He’s kept the purpose of the get-together close to his chest so far.”
I hum in agreement, although I have my suspicions as to why. When I asked Zora, she said something about this being a party for his clients—thanking them for coming over with him in his new firm. I could go with that if his clients—Daniel being one of them—knew they were being honored.
Yeah. Suspect.
Cyrus is lucky I adore him.
I have an issue of Ravaged Lands due to be uploaded in the next few days, and I still have a couple of panels to finish. I’m not worried about getting it done. Everything is falling into place, and I’ve hit what I call that “magical space” where the story and character arc are in sync and the illustrations are flowing from my head to my fingers in a flood. Not only are Sarafina and North on the cusp of another battle, but their cautious and tumultuous dance of a relationship is approaching critical mass. I couldn’t sketch fast enough to keep up with the images. Excitement sparks inside me, and for a second, I glance over my shoulder with a little bit of longing. But the valet has already disappeared down the street. I’m committed to attending this party.
Still, as much as I love Cyrus, I’m giving him two hours before I’m ditching and heading back home and returning to my work.
Sadness pinches my chest, temporarily dimming my pleasure. This is when I wish others knew about Sarafina Rose, North, Ravaged Lands, and my second career. About my joy in the creating of this world so I can share these moments of delight or even doubt.
Correction. I wish I possessed the courage to open up to them and reveal this part of me.
Swallowing a sigh, I climb the front steps to the house. As soon as we approach the door, a man in a black suit opens it. With a smile, he greets us, takes our coats, and guides us toward the formal dining room, where about twenty or so guests have gathered.
Zora and Cyrus stand in the middle, his arm wrapped around her waist even as they’re surrounded by a small group of people. It’s as if he needs that connection to her, and she to him.
Dark, murky vines coil in and around my ribs like an oil spill, ugly and corruptive.
Envy.
I don’t try to pretend not to acknowledge the emotion. And I’m not proud of it. Envy for that intimacy my sister has with her man. We grew up in a house where we never witnessed it; how amazing that she should find it. How astounding that I should recognize it when I’ve never really experienced it.
Lie.I did. Once. And ran from it. Shut it down.
Because as much as I stand here, staring at the epitome of trust, acceptance, and vulnerability, as an ache of longing pulses in my chest, I’m terrified of it. I’m scared shitless for Zora. Because I know—God, do I know—that people like us, people who grew up in war zones, yearn for that connection too much. And we can lose ourselves in the yearning.
We become easy pickings for those who aren’t careful with our hearts. Those whose intentions aren’t good. Those who want to use us for their own selfish reasons and pleasure.
I don’t believe Cyrus falls into those categories; he’s a good man.
