“For the little miss upstairs,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “Happy Halloween, Annie.”
“Happy Halloween, Stanley.”
The elevator lurches upward with its usual arthritic groan. I shove the candies into my pocket and give the garment bag a protective squeeze. My stomach does this sudden, stupid, fluttering cartwheel as we approach Leo’s floor.
I told him I’d make the costume. He’d agreed, with that grateful, slightly overwhelmed look he gets when it comes to “Girl Stuff.” But now the panic is setting in. What if I overstepped? What if Emma takes one look at this sequined monstrosity and decides she’d rather be a regular, non-sparkly mermaid?
Get a grip, Annie,I tell myself. What five-year-old hates sequins? It’s biologically impossible. Sequins are universally beloved by all small humans.
I knock with two quick taps.
The door flies open so fast I’m convinced she was standing there with her ear to the wood. “Annie!” Emma squeals, launching herself at my knees. It’s a high-impact greeting that sends me stumbling back half a step.
“Hi, Em—”
“You’ll NEVER guess what day it is!”
I look up, and the apartment is a full-blown riot of color. It’s like a rainbow threw up in the living room. Yellow, pink, and purple balloons are everywhere—drifting near the ceiling, huddled in corners, tied to the backs of chairs. A banner is stretched across the wall, dripping in silver glitter: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, EMMA!
Emma tugs on my jeans, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “And it’s NOT just Halloween. That’s your only hint.”
I press my lips together, trying to keep the grin from breaking wide open. “Hmm. Tough one. Is it…International Pancake Day?”
She shakes her head, her blonde curls whipping around her face like a halo in a centrifuge. “Nope!”
“National…Take Your Iguana to Work Day?”
“Nope!”
“Arbor Day? Are we celebrating trees?”
Emma dissolves into a fit of giggles, burying her face in her hands. “Annie! You are NOT good at this game. You’re the worst!”
I crouch down until we’re eye-to-eye, putting on my most stumped, bewildered expression. “I’m failing, aren’t I? I guess you’ll just have to break the news to me.”
“It’s my BIRTHDAY!” She throws her arms up, narrowly missing my nose. “I’m a whole hand years old now!” She thrusts her palm toward my face, fingers spread wide, presenting her age as if it’s the most profound truth in the universe.
I gasp, leaning back. “Five? No way. That’s impossible. You were only four yesterday.”
“I was four for a WHOLE year, Annie.”
“A wholeyear?That sounds exhausting.”
“It’s three hundred and sixty-five days,” she says, her voice dropping into a serious, informative register. “Daddy told me. It’s a lot of days.”
“Well,” I say, catching Leo’s eye over her head as he leans against the kitchen counter, looking equal parts tired and soft. “Your daddy is a very smart man.”
“He’s okay,” she says with a shrug that dismisses his entire intellect. “Comeon!You have to see my cake.”
Emma hooks her sticky, determined fingers into my palm and drags me past Leo. He steps aside, but only just enough, his shoulder brushing mine in a way that sends a low-voltage thrum straight to my toes. He lingers in the doorframe, his arms crossed over a charcoal Henley. The sleeves are pushed up, revealing forearms that look like they’ve actually done a day’s work in this life, all corded muscle and dusted with dark hair.
I’m trying very hard to be a normal person, a person who looks at a birthday cake and not at Leo’s thick, chestnut curls, which are fighting a losing battle against a liberal application of hair gel. A few rogue strands have already escaped, spiraling over his forehead in a way that makes my fingers itch to reach up and smooth them back. Or just…touch them. Once. For science.
“Ta-da!” Emma announces, throwing her arms wide like she’s just unveiled a masterpiece at the Louvre.
The cake is a rectangular sheet cake with white frosting, and someone—probably the bakery on Amsterdam—has done asurprisingly decent job of piping Ariel and Flounder onto the top. Ariel’s red hair is a swirl of orange and red frosting, her tail a gradient of green and teal. Flounder is definitely a little cross-eyed, like he’s had one too many seaweed mojitos, but he’s charming in his wonkiness. “Happy Birthday Emma” is written across the top in teal frosting, the letters loopy and cheerful.
“Em, it’s a triumph,” I say, leaning in to inspect the frosting. “Look at Flounder! He looks absolutely thrilled to be invited.”
