I stared at it.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It has strings.”
“All swimsuits have strings.”
“Not enough strings.”
“It’s Cabo. Not a convent.”
I pushed myself up on one elbow and gave her my best glare. It had worked on weaker people. Regan only raised one eyebrow, which was deeply unfair because she had probably taught Edge how to look intimidating by accident.
“I’m eighteen today,” I said. “That means I should get voting rights on my own clothes.”
“You get voting rights after coffee.”
“That’s not democracy.”
“It’s survival.” She handed me the mug. “Drink.”
The cocoa had whipped cream on top even though it was morning. Next to it was coffee because apparently Regan believed in emotional support beverages in pairs. The tray also had fruit, toast, eggs, and little pastries dusted in sugar. It was too much. Too pretty. Too thoughtful. My chest got tight before I had even taken a sip.
I hated that birthdays could hurt.
For years, eighteen had been the magic number. The door. The escape hatch. The line between belonging to other people’s choices and belonging to myself. I thought I would wake up feeling powerful. Instead, I woke up in a villa in Mexico with bruises fading under my skin, legal storms gathering back home, and no idea what came after surviving.
Regan must have seen some of that on my face because her bossy expression softened.
“Today is not for fear.”
I looked into my cocoa. “Fear didn’t get the memo.”
“Then fear can sit in the corner and shut up.” She reached for the swimsuit again. “You are going on a catamaran. You are snorkeling. After that, there is a dolphin experience. You are going to eat something with lime on it. You are going to wear sunscreen. You are going to let people celebrate you.”
“People?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
Regan’s face went blank.
Too blank.
“What people?”
“Birthday people.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only answer you’re getting.”
I pointed at her. “You’re bad at hiding things.”
“I’m excellent at hiding things. You’re just nosy.”
“I learned from criminals.”
“You’re welcome.”
