“I can barely see her face,” Cyrus retorts.
Indy’s arm breaks free once more, half of her tear-stained cheek visible as she reaches up and beckons to Cyrus, waving for him to descend to our level and join us in our human dogpile of happiness.
“No,” he says succinctly.
Except Juliet and I clearly have the same thought, because as much as Cyrus annoys me—he’s bossy and smug and I swear he gets under my skin on purpose—he’s also, deep down, a good brother. So I raise my hand with Juliet’s, grab Cy’s leg, and pull him closer.
“Stop that,” he says, trying to kick us off. “Stop—it—stop. Stop—” His protests die as we continue to tug, and he should feel grateful he has on pants instead of shorts, because I know Juliet’s nails could do some damage. He heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Oh, allright.”
And to my absolute shock and amazement, a second later he settles himself next to us. I wrench my head up to look at him, just to make sure I’m not mistaken, but he’s there—cross-legged next to us, a little smile on his face as he reaches out to touch India’s head.
As he should; she’s gettingmarried—married to Felix, and Juliet will marry Luca, and Cyrus will either marry Poppy or join a monastery, and all that will be left is me, alone, proud and lofty on my crumbling mountain.
This is not about you,I tell myself furiously as tears continue to trickle down my cheeks, as my strangled laughter turns a bit more watery.This is not about you, Aurora.
“Tell me Felix at least got you a nice ring,” Cyrus says from next to me, and from our heaping pile of limbs, India laughs, a muffled sound.
I think we all cry-laugh a little harder after that.
ROMAN
“Have you ever considered becoming a therapist?”I say, looking down at the cooing baby in my arms.
“My child is not going to be your therapist,” Denice says from next to me. I can hear the disapproval in her voice, but I don’t look at her. “Now or ever.”
“But she’s so good at it,” I say, and it’s true. I haven’t said a word about what’s bothering me, obviously—not even to Denice—but somehow I can feel the tension and thorny nettles melting away. They don’t disappear, but they seem less important when I have a tiny human being looking at me, her grayish-blue eyes wide and alert, her nose scrunching every now and then.
“I’m good at it too,” Denice says, and she nudges me gently.
I sigh and finally look at her.
Her living room is bathed in afternoon light, and the house is quiet. Louis is out, so it’s just the two of us and Nessa here; so far I’ve changed one diaper, made silly faces for thirty minutes so Denice could go shower, and practiced my swaddling technique.
Yeah. That’s a thing. Swaddling a baby requirestechnique.I’m not great at it.
I think Denice can do it in two seconds, in the dark, with both eyes closed. For that matter, she probably has.
She looks like herself today, and it’s worth noting, because sometimes she doesn’t. Sometimes she looks lost; not unhappy, necessarily, but not all there. I don’t know if it’s something to do with being tired or maybe adjusting to a new way of life.
“Babies suck all the life out of you,” she said when I asked last time, after we had dinner together and my dad had gone home. Denice had an unidentified stain on her shirt and a vacant look in her eyes, and she was once again slumped on the couch, Nessa in her arms. “It’s not your fault,” she cooed to the baby, tickling her chubby cheeks. “You’re just doing what biology programmed you to do.”
Then she looked at me. “But it’s true. Maybe it sounds bad. But having a baby drains you. My body doesn’t just belong to me right now. My center of consciousness is now external. You can get lost if you’re not careful.” Then she passed Nessa to me and asked me to put her in her swing.
Today, though, right now, she’s more herself, especially after showering. She’s wearing her big sister expression, the one that’s currently inviting me to talk—but will later threaten if the invitation doesn’t work.
When she raises one brow at me, I sigh. “I asked Aurora out.”
Denice just blinks at me.
“And she said no.”
Another blink and more silence.
“And…that’s it.”
Except I’m lying. That’s not it—or, rather, that’s not all. I could deal with being rejected if Aurora simply didn’t like who I was.
But Aurora doesn’t seem to know who I am. That’s my concern. Or, an even deeper concern—what if I’m the one who doesn’t know myself?
