Chapter Eight
“THIS IS TIARA, ICELLE’Sbest friend, and...just between you and me, she’s Arkane’s girlfriend as well.”
Laugh, laugh, laugh from whoever it is Joy is currently talking to.
Smile, smile, smile, on the other hand, has become my default response because this is, like, the 24th person to hear those exact same lines from Arkane’s mother, and while I’ve done my very best to clear things up earlier—
“I’m not really your son’s girlfriend.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“Well, no—”
“Then trust me, you are.”
“So I’m his girlfriend because he says I’m not his girlfriend?”
“You don’t always have to say something with words, my dear. And you’ll soon know with that son of mine, that’s truer than most.”
Joy’s expression turns rather wistful and nostalgic as she looks out over the sunlit veranda we’re standing on. The luncheon is being hosted by one of her charity friends, at anestatethat one of said friends owns, and even though they’re all that type—the type that ownsestates, not homes—everyone’s just so casual and nice, and not one of them, like, seriously, not one of them looks at me like I was out of place even though I’m still wearing Mom’s hand-me-down dress.
“Do you know—I never planned to call him Arkane.”
Joy’s voice has softened, pulling me back from my thoughts, and she smiles at me when I look at her.
“His name simply came out, like something from my soul prompted it.”
Is she saying she believes in ghosts and stuff like that?
Joy suddenly laughs. “I love how expressive your face is, and no, my dear. Not a ghost. But I know now it was Someone.”
Oh, she means...God.
And the moment I realized that—she believes in God—my whole world goes still for a moment.
Very arcane, right?
And after the 7th or 8th person she’s talked to, it also started feeling very possible. Not real, not true just yet, but...possible?
Could it be like Joy says?
I mean, the things that son of her says so easily are the things I know I would end up choking on.
You’re mine.
I’m yours.
Can those translate to me being his girlfriend?
Joy squeezes my elbow, and then she’s already moving, called away by someone across the veranda.
A woman in a cream blouse drifts over almost immediately, cup in hand, and plants herself at the railing beside me.
