“Okay,” came Niall’s low rumble. “Tuesday, then. I don’t expect us to turn Winter Young into a spy in a single week, but I expect him to at least be reliable enough for one mission. Sound doable?”
“We’ll see, won’t we?” Sydney stared out at the city outside her window, dreading the start of training Winter. “And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“When are you going to ask Sauda out on a real date?”
Niall made an annoyed sound in his throat, and Sydney had to stifle a smile. “Against regulations, Syd. You know that.”
“Oh, come on. I won’t tell headquarters.”
“Good night, Sydney,” he muttered, then hung up.
She put on a looping track of rain on her phone, then tossed it aside and closed her eyes. The sound of water filled her thoughts, and she felt the rising tension in her muscles relax a bit, her neck loosening, the tightness in her jaw fading. She closed her eyes again, then tried to concentrate on nothing but the sheets on her bed.
Instead, the image of Winter arriving at their meeting remained vividly in her mind, the details still intact from when she’d taken in everything about him. He hovered there in the darkness, refusing to disappear.
Sydney frowned. She envisioned herself taking up a shovel and literally heaving him out of her thoughts.
Maybe Winter would turn out to be a pleasant surprise. Maybe he could learn the ropes faster than she expected. Maybe she could prepare him enough to at least survive this mission and get her promotion to full agent. Then he could go back to his life and she could go back to hers, and she wouldn’t have to deal with him again.
She let herself stew in that resolution until she finally fell asleep, Winter’s face still burned into her mind.
7
The Afterthought
When Winter knocked on the door to his mother’s apartment, he knew immediately that his visit would be a bad one. He always knew.
If he could hear hurried shuffling inside, followed by the opening of the door and Mom standing on the other side, it would be fine. It meant she was doing okay, that she was happy to see him, and they could even have a normal conversation. But today she didn’t answer right away, and the door stayed closed. A second later, Winter heard the soft click of the lock on the other side, followed by his mother’s singsong voice coming from somewhere far away in the apartment.
“Come in,” she called to him. “Door’s unlocked.”
His heart sank a little. He’d done this a thousand times over the years, and nothing about it was ever a surprise. But today he was leaving to begin his Panacea training, so his nerves were already frayed. The thought of being under Sydney Cossette’s tutelage for a week had him on edge. And having to endure this painfully awkward visit right now made him feel like turning back around and heading down the elevator to the street below.
But he didn’t. Even though his life had become a never-ending current of plane rides and hotel stays, he had never once failed to check on his mother before leaving on a trip. So instead, he fixed one of the rolled-up sleeves of his collar shirt, rested the bouquet of flowers in his hand against his shoulder, and opened the door.
Five years and hundreds of concerts in front of millions of fans—yet he still felt his heart flutter with anxiety as he stepped inside.
The apartment looked like it always did—a state of pleasant clutter that was somehow both chaotic and organized, the kind that would appear artistic if drawn by a skilled hand, as if everything had paused in the middle of being done. The side table near the entryway was filled up underneath and on top with piles of books organized by their interior color, all with their dust jackets removed. A buttery yellow blanket lay half-folded and strewn over the couch, and every inch of the coffee table was hidden under an assortment of books, magazines, and potted plants that trailed haphazard vines down to the rug. A fishbowl with two goldfish sat next to a milky pink ceramic figurine of Buddha and a lucky cat sculpture on the dining table. Stacks of blue-and-white Chinese porcelain dishes sat unsorted on the marble kitchen counter, pulled out from the dishwasher but not yet put away.
Down the hall leading to the bedrooms, Winter could hear her humming the refrain of an old song over and over. She had a beautiful voice—he’d inherited his own from her, if nothing else—and now he found himself stopping to admire it, listening to the sweet notes repeat themselves.
“Hi, Mom,” he called out to her. The singing paused. He held out the bouquet of flowers before him, as if she could see it. “Got a spare vase?”
“Zaì shui cáo xià,” she called back in Mandarin.Under the kitchen sink.
He could hear the tension in her voice now, the slight disappointment tainting her musical voice that always seemed to pop up whenever he visited.
As he went to the kitchen to pull out an old glass vase from under the sink, his mother emerged from her bedroom in a quiet flurry. Today, she was dressed in a chunky white sweater and a pleated green dress that swished as she walked, and her wavy black hair was tied back with abandana, the locks draping over one of her shoulders. A large tote hung from her arm. Like the apartment, everything about her appeared hastily thrown together, but in a way that looked like perfection. His mother, always stylish even without trying.
But he knew she did try, of course. She’d probably been up for several hours already, pulling on and taking off outfit after outfit, unable to stop until she finally managed to settle on something that ended the cycle.
“Thank you for the flowers, baby bear,” she said breathlessly, this time in English, as she put her earrings in without a mirror. “They’re beautiful.”
Winter nodded, even though she wasn’t looking directly at him and hadn’t even seen the flowers. “I got you tulips.”
“I love tulips.”
