Amy will be a lion. Like us. She just needs to wake up.
Clay holds my stare, finally rolling her eyes, because she doesn’t give a shit about convincing Amy of anything, but she does whatever I say.
We have that in common.
She looks down at Amy, who keeps her eyes lowered like she doesn’t know we’re right here. “So, are you…getting ready at home tonight?”
After a moment, Amy nods
“By yourself?” Clay asks.
Another nod.
Clay’s eyes flash to me, and we both look at Amy, who still hasn’t met her eyes.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Clay says, swinging her bag over her shoulder. “Just bring your stylist. Margaritas kick off in fifty-nine minutes.”
Amy shoots her eyes up, excitement and a smile on her face. She looks between Clay and me, the disdain I used to see there now gone.
“Thanks,” she says.
I have no idea if we can trust her, but I guess we’ll find out.
I pull Clay along, our duffels hanging crossbody, as I rush us to my bike and hand over her helmet. Taking mine, I pull it over my head and climb on, Clay straddling behind me and wrapping her arms around my body.
“Shower,” she whispers against my neck.
Shivers hit me, and I kick the bike into gear extra hard, speeding off.
I take us to her house, usually loving the feel of her too much to rush, but we’re busy tonight, and I want her to myself before everyone gets here.
My dress is already in the living room, as well as some vanities set up for makeup and hair, and I can hear Clay’s mom chattering away on the phone, her earpiece hanging in her ear, as we run into the house
“Girls, slow down!” Gigi shouts as we race for the stairs. “You’re all muddy!”
We kick off shoes on the marble floor. “Sorry, Mom!” Clay says, taking my hand.
Clay’s mom holds a tray of beautiful, white frosting-covered little cakes with pink flowers decorated on the top.
I reach out to take one but stop myself. “I need to fit into my dress.”
Gigi leans in. “Take it from me: Eat the cake.”
Well, if she’s going to twist my arm about it. I pluck a fancy little confection off the tray and let Clay haul me upstairs as I stumble and eat at the same time.
“Your mom looks good,” I tell her over my mouthful.
She pulls me inside her room and slams the door. “I think she’s feeling good, too.”
“And your dad?”
She pulls off her shirt, her black sports bra looking fantastic on her, and walks to the window, spying outside. She shrugs. “It doesn’t feel weird.”
That he’s moved out, she means. Despite the flames and love that still exist between her parents, Gigi decided she needed to be alone, and good for her. Their divorce is proceeding.
“I’m glad Henry isn’t here to see it,” Clay says, “but she’s getting younger every day. You know?”
She peers out the window, down onto the patio, and I walk over, seeing her mother enter the small greenhouse she’d built—or had someone build—in the backyard below. She’s discovered a love of gardening, I guess.
She’s also looking into a photography course, and teaching herself the stock market. At first, I thought she was trying to distract herself, but it seems to bring her joy. Learning how to grow again.
I sit in the window seat, pulling Clay down between my legs. Her head falls back into my shoulder, and I kiss her hair.
“I’m gonna miss you,” I say quietly.
“Just be here,” she whispers. “Let’s not talk about it, okay?”
“I can’t stop thinking about it, though.” A painful lump stretches my throat. “Maybe I can get into Wake Forest. Or you can come to Dartmouth.”
“Too cold.” She shivers. “And I’m not going to Wake Forest.”
Excuse me?
“I haven’t told my parents yet,” she says. “But after everything, I think they know better than to stand in my way.”
“Where are you going, then?”
This is news. When did she decide this?
She pauses, threading her fingers through mine on her stomach. “I’m staying, actually.”
“What?”
She draws in a breath and sits up, turning around to face me. “I’ve seen the world, Liv,” she tells me. “I’ve met people. Dressed to impress. I’ve had the same conversations with people I don’t like and networked with people I don’t want relationships with. Everything leaving home is supposed to give me, I’ve already had.” She doesn’t falter, gazing into my eyes and thoughtful. “I don’t want to be in a sorority where peer pressure will have me vomiting every carb, or hiding how much I love you, instead of some frat brother.” She touches my face. “I know what I want.”
I don’t know if I’m unnerved or relieved. It’s normal to worry about her meeting someone else. Insecurities come with being separated. She’d make new friends at college, perhaps find something or someone who could take her away from me forever. It seems less likely now that she’s staying home and won’t be in that environment day in and day out.