By some shred of luck, I manage to get everything without seeing my father once, and I’m starting to believe I’m just a bit paranoid. After all, he never bothers me during my late-night baking sessions. Why would he even notice?
After I’ve set everything down on the couch, Calypso’s eyes strays from my offering up to me, then they linger silently.
“Am I missing anything?” I ask. “I’m happy to make you some muffins too, if you’d like.”
Her head shakes. “This is more than enough. Sorry.”
I don’t know any other way to tell her to stop apologizing without making her apologize again, so I tip her chin up with a finger and let a roguish smile come across my face. “There’s no need to apologize, sugar. As if I’m not thrilled to have a lovely girl like you in my room tonight.”
Her lips part, blush dancing across her cheeks, and in the stunned silence, not a drop of fear that I’ll abuse such a blessing ignites in her expression.
I chuckle, tapping her chin before pulling away. “I’ll changethe sheets on my bed while you enjoy your snack. I can sleep on the couch tonight, or in the loft. Or you could take the loft, if you think it’s cool. It’s up on the second floor and tucked between bookcases. I’m pretty sure it still looks like a nest from the last time I pretended to be a bird.”
She finds my second floor library, and the touch of an emotion that isn’t helpless or sad reflects in her eyes. Getting a cookie, she mutters, “You’re too rich.”
“Yep.” I can’t exactly argue there.
“These aren’t yours.”
“Hm?” I pop my head out of my closet after snatching a new set of sheets. She holds up her cookie, and I raise my brows. While correct, what on earth led her to that conclusion? “How’d you know?”
“They’re weird shapes.” In spite of that, she has no qualms with eating them. “You weighed out the grams for each muffin so they were all the same. These just aren’t that level of perfect enough.”
What a positively charming detail to notice. “I won’t tell Giorgio his cookies aren’t quite up to your standards.”
Halfway through making my bed, I glance toward Calypso. She’s nursing the mug of hot chocolate and staring at what remains in the pile of gifts beside her. At long last, she says, “Whose clothes are these? They still have the tags on.”
I drop my attention to pushing my pillow into a pillow case. “My mom’s.”
“She won’t mind me wearing her new clothes?”
I clear my throat. “No. Well. She never got a chance to wear them. I’m sure she’d be happy if they got some use.”
Calypso’s head whips up away from the mug, horror streaking through her eyes. “What?”
“She’s dead,” I state, no embellishments. “She died ten years ago, when I was ten. It’s okay.” Now. It’s okaynow. For the mostpart. That kind of thing is never exactly completelyokay.
Calypso stares at me, her expression lifting almost fully from wherever she’s been since I picked her up. It’s refreshing, or it would be if this new topic weren’t equally distressing. At last, she blurts, “You’retwenty?”
“Um.” That isn’t at all where I thought things would go. “Yes? Aren’t you? We’re both sophomores.”
Abject shock fills her eyes, and she stares aghast. “I took a work year.”
My expression mimics hers, and we blink at each other for several long moments. She’s older than me? My sugar glider is older than me? This tiny creature is older than me? It’s just by a year, but still. “Oh,” I say, and can think of nothing else.
Calypso can. “I’m supposed to take care of you.”
“What?”
“I’m older. You’re baby. I’m supposed to be the one taking care of you.”
I plop down on my newly-made bed. “You’re not serious.”
She winces, and her jaw tightens. “And I’m here complaining about my mom when…”
I watch the thoughts swarm across her face. They’re almost too easy to decode. Guilt. Worry. Self-hatred. It’s too late for her to not be here. She can’t very well demand I take her home now. At last, her eyes close, and she’s back in the pit we so briefly escaped. “I’m so sorry.”
I sigh. “What did I say about apologizing?”
