CHAPTER 23
CASSIE
August
Only thirty minutes in to the twins’ birthday party, and I’m second-guessing my desire to have children. I thought two six-year-olds were loud. Fifteen of them? It’s one endless shriek that doesn’t let up. The kind of unceasing noise that worms its way into your soul.
Dad and Nia rented a bouncy castle that takes up nearly half the backyard and currently contains eight little girls who are jumping up and down screaming at the tops of their lungs. It sounds like they’re getting murdered in there, but I think they’re having fun? The remaining seven girls are seated around the crafts table, where one of the counselors from the twins’ day camp helps everyone construct their own sparkly tiaras. Dad hired the teenager for the afternoon, and she’s a big hit so far.
Speaking of Dad, this is the fourth time he’s hurried inside to “get something.” Took me a while, but I’m starting to think he’s not actually getting something, because he keeps returning empty-handed. On to him, I sneak away from the party and follow him inside. Sure enough, he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, scrolling through his phone.
“You’re not getting anything,” I accuse.
He looks up, eyes dancing behind his glasses. “Sure I am. I’m getting peace and quiet.”
I wander toward the other side of the counter and admire the girls’ birthday cake, courtesy of Nia’s bakery buddy Chandra, who ratted out Dad the day we were turtle browsing. Chandra and her daughter Sava are here today, the former chatting outside with Nia, the latter one of the kids getting murdered in the bouncy castle.
“Do you think the twins suspect?” I ask him. “About the turtle.”
“Not in the slightest,” he replies. “Last night Roxy was complaining again about having to wait till next year for a pet.”
“Is everything all set up? The tank? The water? The—what did that Joel kid call it? UV light?”
“UVB,” Dad corrects. “And it’s all done. Even decorated the little dude’s new digs with this waterlogged cypress tree decoration. It has all these branches he can perch on. I gotta admit, he’s cute.”
“Uh-huh. And what does Nia think about your new roommate?”
“She’s still not thrilled about it, but she’s just glad it’s not a dog. As far as pets go, this one is low maintenance if you ignore the fact that it lives for a thousand years.”
I snort.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Dad adds. “And I know I’ve already said it a bunch of times today, but happy birthday.”
He comes up to wrap his arms around me in a warm hug. It’s rare to receive any physical affection from my father, and I lean into his touch. I might not see him as often as I’d like, but when I do, I’m happy to be around him. It’s so much easier with him than Mom. With her it’s a minefield; I never know when I’ll set off the next verbal attack.
As if reading my mind, Dad releases me with a light, “How’s it been with your mom in town? You two getting along?”
“You know, the usual.” And then, also as per usual, I change the subject. “I wish I hadn’t wrapped the Kit ’n McKenna book already. I’m dying to show you how it turned out.” I hesitate, feeling myself blush. “And you’ll be happy to know I spoke to Robb about trying to publish it.”
Dad’s eyes light up. “You did? Excellent.”
“His boss at the design studio has some contacts in the agent world. Talent agents, literary, that kind of thing. He’s going to give Robb a few names of people who might want to rep us.” I shrug. “Who knows—maybe this is the career path I’ll end up on.” When Dad brightens again, I raise my hand in warning. “Don’t get your hopes up. Publishers might hate the concept.”
“They won’t,” he says confidently. “And I can’t wait to see it. I don’t know what the girls are going to love more—the turtle or your book.”
“The turtle, Dad.” I roll my eyes.
A couple hours later, after all the birthday cake has been devoured and all the horrible shrieking children are gone, the remaining five of us gather in the living room for the grand unveiling. We decided to wait until their friends were gone, because as Joel the Pothead Turtle Whisperer had warned, turtles are highly sensitive. We didn’t want to give the poor thing a heart attack when he swam out of his cypress tree and found fifteen screaming girls in his face.
A thirty-gallon tank now resides against the back wall of the living room, hidden by the black tablecloth Dad temporarily draped over it.
“What’s happening?” Roxy demands, perpetually mistrustful. “What is that?”
“Why don’t you go and look?” Dad beams at her. Even Nia looks like she’s fighting a smile.
Wearing identical expressions of suspicion, the twins approach the covered tank.
“Pull the tablecloth off,” Dad encourages.
Surprisingly, Roxy hesitates, and so it’s Mo who ends up tugging on the cloth to reveal the turtle tank beneath.
Even more surprising, the girls stay deathly silent. Not a shriek to be heard.
“Girls?” Dad prompts.
They turn toward their parents, wide-eyed.
“Is … is it for us?” Monique whispers.
“He sure is.” Nia’s smile breaks free. It’s hard not to smile when the girls are trembling with quiet excitement.
“Come,” Dad says, urging them closer. “Come see him.”
I step forward too. I also want to see the little dude. I peer at the tank and search the artificial rocks, branches, and little log that serves as a basking spot. That’s where I find him. Dad’s right—he’s kind of cute. Small, maybe four inches max, with a mottled black shell and distinct stripes on his head.
“What’s his name?” Roxy whispers.
“He doesn’t have one yet,” Dad says.
Not entirely true. I think this one was LL Cool J. But I don’t blame Dad for wanting to rename him.
“I was thinking, though … maybe we can let your mama name him?” Dad tips his head as he awaits an answer.
Nia looks startled. “Me?”
He winks at his wife. “You. We all know Mama had her doubts about him, but she fell in love with him the moment she met him. So I think she should name him.”
“Name him, Mama,” Mo pleads.
Nia eyes the turtle for several long beats. Then she says, “Pierre.”
I swallow a laugh. “Excellent choice.”
“Pierre,” Roxy echoes solemnly, pressing her nose to the tank.
“I will love him forever,” Mo breathes. She’s got both hands on the glass and is staring at him in adoration.
“Can I hold him?” Roxy begs.
“No, me first!”
Dad shakes his head. “We’re going to go easy on the holding thing. At least for a little while. Pierre’s experiencing a real culture shock right now.”
“And,” Nia adds, donning a stern look, “we need to have a serious talk about how to take care of Pierre, and what your responsibilities will be. Oui?”
“Oui,” the twins promise.
“We’ll do that tomorrow. Tonight, we still have a birthday dinner to eat,” Dad says cheerfully. “And your sister has a present for you too…” he trails off enticingly.
My sisters spin toward me. “What is it?” Roxy demands.
I give her an innocent smile. “I don’t know…” I walk into the hall to grab the wrapped present I left on the credenza, then return to offer it to Roxanne. “Why don’t you two sit on the couch and open it?”
Unlike the awed silence Pierre received, my gift garners actual shrieks.
“It’s Kit!” Mo shouts, trying to grab the hardcover out of her sister’s hands. “Let me look!”
“We’re looking together!” Roxy flips to the first page and stares at the drawing. “This is a real storybook!”
“It is,” I confirm.
She scrunches up her forehead. “But it’s your story.”
“It is my story,” I agree. “And I wrote it down and put it in a book for you. And…” I join them on the couch, settling in between them. “Look.” I flip back to the intro page. “Can you read that for me?”
The twins are going into the first grade in September, but they’ve been at an advanced reading level for a while now. They squint at the page, eyes widening when they recognize their names.
“To Roxanne … and … Monique,” Roxy reads in stilted pauses. “The best … sisters … in the word. I mean, world.” She gazes at me, mouth gaping open. Then she screeches with joy. “I’m in the book!” she shouts. “Momo, you’re in the book too!”
“We’re in the book!” Mo jumps up and starts bouncing on the cushions.
“Monique,” Nia chides, instantly plucking her off the couch and setting her on the floor. “We don’t climb on the furniture, remember?”
Guilt pricks into me as I’m reminded of the last time she scaled the furniture. Under my watch, when a cabinet almost felt on her head and crushed my sister to death. At least Nia doesn’t seem to be holding a grudge about it.
“Can you read it to us?” Roxy asks, hugging my arm.
“Please?” Mo launches herself at me, trying to climb into my lap.
“Why don’t you girls do that now while your mama and I start fixing dinner?” Dad suggests. He’s wearing a soft smile as he sweeps his gaze over the three of us.
He and Nia disappear into the kitchen, and I settle in to read my sisters a story.
Over dinner, Dad pours a glass of champagne and hands it to me. When I raise an eyebrow, he raises one back. “You’re legal now,” he says. “And I’m going to pretend this is your first glass of champagne.”
“It is,” I say innocently. “Never drank a single drop until this very moment.”
That draws a genuine laugh from Nia.
Dad clinks his glass with mine. “Happy birthday, Cass.”
“Happy birthday, Cassie,” my sisters echo.
“Happy birthday, Cassandra,” Nia adds in.
Dinner is tasty, as it always is when Nia cooks. Afterward, Dad hands me an envelope that serves as my birthday present. Inside is a gift card, which is pretty much what I expected. It’s always a gift card.
“Figured this way you could go and pick something out for yourself,” Dad tells me. Which is what he says every year.
“It’s perfect. Thank you.” But it’s hard to ignore the pang of unhappiness that tugs at my insides. I know it’s far easier to please first-graders than your college-senior daughter, but sometimes it would be nice if Dad made an actual effort.
The girls beg me to spend the night, and although I hadn’t been planning on it, I can’t say no to those faces. I text Tate to let him know I won’t be coming by later.
Tate: No birthday sex??!!
Me: Sadly not. My sisters don’t want me to leave.
Tate: I’ll allow it, but I’m not happy.
I know he’s kidding, which is confirmed when he sends a follow-up.
Tate: Have fun. See you tomorrow?
Me: For sure.
Hell, now I’m almost regretting agreeing to spend the night here, because just seeing his name on my phone gets me going. Sexually. Because that’s what my world has been reduced to. Sex. And sex. And then more sex. I’m voracious about it now. I crave it all the damn time.
I freaking love sex.
Or maybe it’s Tate.
Of course it’s Tate. You’re falling for him.
Wait, what? Where the hell did that come from? I chide my mind for even suggesting such blasphemy. I can’t, under any circumstances, allow myself to fall in love with the guy. I’m leaving in three weeks. He’s staying behind. Not only that, but we agreed to a fling. We even discussed the terms. Therefore, I’m not allowed to engage my heart in this. Only my body.
Luckily, my body is very much in love with Tate’s.
“Let me help you with those,” I say when I spot Nia carrying in plates from the dining room.
“Non, non. It’s fine.”
“You cooked dinner for me,” I protest. “The least I can do is help with the cleanup.”
Nia once again dismisses me. “Go spend time with the girls. Their bedtime is soon.”
I press my lips together, fighting a wave of irritation. Despite my best effort, the words biting at my tongue cannot be reined in.
“Why don’t you like me?”
Her expression turns to shock. “What?”
“Why don’t you like me?” I repeat.
“Cassandra…” She places the dirty dishes in the sink and slowly steps toward me. She rubs the bridge of her nose. Uneasy. “I—”
“Cass!” Dad calls from the living room. “Come check this out!”
“Pierre is swimming!” yells Roxy.
Relief sweeps through me. I’m immensely grateful for the interruption, because voicing the question made me realize I don’t want to know the answer.
Why do we do that, anyway? Ask questions with glaringly obvious answers. Painful answers. I guess human beings really are gluttons for punishment. It’s like Peyton, whenever she gets ghosted by a guy. She always wants to know the reason. Wants to know why. And I always counter with, Why does it matter? Either way he’s not interested in you. But still she persists, Yes, but I want to know WHY.
Nia doesn’t like me. That much is clear.
So, really, the why doesn’t matter.
Tate: Make sure not to throw out the newspaper today.
The message comes in as I’m pulling into Grandma’s driveway the next morning. Okay. Intriguing.
I hop out of the Rover and head into the house to have a look. Grandma wakes up ungodly early in the mornings, and if she’d already gone out to grab the newspaper, she would’ve tossed the Avalon Bee on the hall table and only brought her paper of choice—The Wall Street Journal—into the kitchen with her.
Sure enough, in the hall I find the abandoned Saturday edition of the Bee. Curious, I unfold it, then burst out laughing. Oh my God. This is incredible.
“Cassie?” comes my mother’s voice.
Still giggling over the paper, I carry it into the kitchen, where Mom is drinking her coffee at the table.
She gives me a wry smile. “What’s so funny?”
“This.” I hold up the newspaper to show her the front page, which features a half-page photograph of the Bartlett family. Gavin, Gemma, and Tate (missed opportunity for Gate) pose in front of Bartlett Marine, with Gavin in the middle, his broad grin flying off the page. Tate’s dad is definitely larger than life, and the headline reflects this:
MR. CONGENIALITY OF THE BAY
Mom leans forward to study the article, her eyes instantly narrowing. “What’s this?”
“Tate’s dad.” Another giggle pops out. “The Bee did a profile on him. It was all he could talk about the first time I met him. He’s so proud of it.”
My phone buzzes in my other hand.
Tate: He already has TWO framed copies. One for the dealership, one for his home office. He thinks he’s a celebrity now. He just called me asking if he should schedule a press conference.
Me: Let the man have his moment in the sun, Gate!
Laughing, I leave my phone on the counter and head for the fridge. At the table, Mom is scanning the article, still looking displeased. Well, of course. Someone other than her is getting attention. The nerve!
“Your grandmother tried to convince me the other day that you were dating that boy, but I didn’t believe her.” Raising one eyebrow, Mom pushes the newspaper away and picks up her coffee cup. “It appears I was wrong.”
“Tate and I aren’t dating.” I stick my head in the fridge hoping the chill might cool down my suddenly warm cheeks.
“No? Because also according to your grandmother, the landscaper says it looks like someone’s been trampling the rose garden beneath the lattice at the side of the house. The one that leads right to your window.”
Damn it. I poke my head out, my hand emerging with a container of yogurt. “It’s not a big deal,” I say, going to grab a bowl. “We’re just hanging out.”
Mom shakes her head in amusement. “It’s not like I don’t know exactly what that means, sweetie.”
I shrug. “It’s just a casual thing. We’re parting ways at the end of the summer, so it’s not going to lead to anything.”
“I see. Well, I suppose so long as you’re having fun.”
“We are.”
“And so long as you’re taking precautions.” Mom offers a pointed look.
My cheeks are scorching again. “We are.”
“Then I guess I don’t have anything to worry about,” she finishes.
I’m confused as to why she was worried in the first place. Mom’s never paid much attention to my love life, other than to criticize me for not having one.
She changes the subject, watching me as she sips her coffee. “How is your father?”
I brace myself. Waiting for the … and his nurse?
But it doesn’t come.
“He’s good. We had a nice time. The girls loved their gift.”
“Speaking of gifts.” Mom finishes her coffee and walks to the counter, and it’s then that I notice the neatly wrapped gift near the knife block. A crisp lavender envelope sits atop it. “I decided I’d wait until today to give you this, since you were so busy yesterday.”
Her tone lacks bite, but that had to be sarcasm, right? Some kind of resentful subtext, like, You were so busy yesterday … because your father and his nurse kept you away from me all day long.
Only, I see none of that on her face. Not an ounce of hostility.
“Yesterday was super busy,” I agree.
I open the envelope first and pull out a card with a delicate purple flower pressed onto the front. Inside, the card is blank save for my mother’s uber-concise handwritten message: Happy birthday, Cassie. Love, Mom. And there’s a check for five thousand dollars.
“Some spending money for your senior year,” she explains.
“Thanks.” Gift card. Check. Both my parents enjoy taking the easy way out, apparently.
“Now here’s your real present,” she says, sliding the gift box toward me. Her tone is light, joking even, but it’s belied by the anxiety in her eyes.
Okay. This is weird. Why does she look so anxious for me to open this?
I study the narrow box, which is around the size of a sheet of paper and not too thick. Clothing, I realize, when I lift the lid and glimpse fabric beneath the white tissue paper. I part the paper.
It’s a crop top.
I steel myself. This must be some kind of attack, right?
“I had Joy pick it out,” Mom says. A nervous look darts across her face.
Holy shit, this is not a joke. I repeat, this is not a joke.
It’s a sincere gesture.
“Oh,” I say in surprise.
I run my fingers over the ribbed material. I saw this top in one of the boutiques on the strip when Joy and I were shopping a few weeks ago. I’d picked it up, admiring it, asking Joy if emerald green was my color. I didn’t end up buying it, only because I didn’t feel like dropping two hundred dollars on a strip of fabric.
“I know I was out of line,” Mom starts.
The shocks just keep coming.
“Last week when we spoke on the patio,” she clarifies. “You’d just returned from dinner and I remarked on your outfit. I may have been a tad rude about it.”
May have? A tad?
“Just a tad,” I say lightly.
“I’m sorry. I was in a very bad mood that night, and I’m afraid I took it out on you.” She laughs, and it sounds genuinely sheepish. “I don’t think you’re a bimbo. Obviously I don’t think that. Like I said, I was in a bad mood. I apologize.”
I can’t get over the feeling that somehow, someway, this is an inexplicable ruse. A trick with an end game I don’t know yet. It’s difficult to trust my mother. You can’t trust a person who’s spent years making you feel unworthy.
Mom isn’t done. “I spoke with your grandmother about it when we were in Charleston, and she pointed out that when I was your age, I was also insecure about my looks. And those insecurities aren’t helped by someone sharing their negative opinion about your wardrobe choices. Also, if you do choose to have a breast reduction—”
I brace myself again.
“—I will happily accompany you to the consultation. But if you choose not to, that is also okay.” She reaches out and touches the soft material of the crop top. “Either way, I’m sure you’re going to look wonderful in this. Why don’t you wear it today? Pair it with that long skirt we bought last week, the khaki one with the gold flowers? That might be a nice outfit for our day in Charleston.” Mom pauses. “That’s still the plan, right? Birthday Sunday in the city?”
“For sure. I just need to shower and change and then I’m ready to go.” I clutch the top a little tighter, surprised by the lump of emotion that forms in my throat. “Thank you for this. I love it.”
For once, I’m not lying.