“I’m sure.”
“Then this might ruin your day, but I think I volunteered us for another night of patrol.”
We laugh together, remembering the vests, the swings, and the water balloon ambush from the night before. My first twenty birthdays have left me floating in a sea of sorrow. But the deep sound of Wilder’s amusement is a riptide that carries me away until I catch a wave and swim back to shore. On dry land, I have so much to be thankful for.
“It wasn’t so bad,” I say with a ring of truth. I’d volunteer every night if it meant spending a few uninterrupted hours beneath the stars with Wilder.
I’d even fill the water balloons up myself.
“No, it wasn’t that bad,” he says softly. After a pregnant pause, he asks, “Are you working today?”
“Nope. Lydia gave me the day off.” Dawn serves up cinnamon rolls, so I won’t tell him what Lydia did on her twenty-first birthday and still found it necessary to call off my day. And I can’t admit that it feels like she keeps coming up with reasons to cancel my appointments on purpose. I haven’t complained yet, because it frees up the opportunity to hang out at the office, but she’s up to something. “I’ll probably hang out here until dinner. Lydia made reservations.”
“I’ll be there.”
“You will?” I ask in surprise.
“I wouldn’t miss it, Camilla.” And with an air of smugness in his tone, he says, “That’s what friends are for.”
Lydia comes home with a handful of shopping bags and an amused expression on her typically stony face. I’m perched in front of the television, eating another cinnamon roll in the dress she and Talent bought for me.
“Please tell me you didn’t get frosting on the dress.” She drops the bags and takes the fork from my hands before I can eat another bite. “Get up. Take off the dress and jump in the shower.”
“But it’s so pretty. When will I ever have the chance to wear it?”
“You’re unbelievable.” Her hazel eyes widen in horror, and she points to the hallway. “Shower. Now.”
I couldn’t fasten the dress myself, so when I stand, it falls from my body into a pool of glitter at my feet. Lydia’s unmoved by my bare breasts, and she even goes as far as smacking my cotton-covered bottom as I walk away. It’s a move of playfulness I don’t expect, and my jaw drops at the sting on my skin in the shape of her hand.
“Shower, Camilla.” Lydia holds the dress up, inspecting it for crumbs.
“I’m not your keeper or your mother,”Lydia said the first morning we spent together in this apartment. Soon followed by two rules she expected me to follow.“Don’t go into my room and stay out of my way on workdays.”
Our relationship has evolved a lot in the year since she drew those lines in the sand, and I admit to balancing on them like they’re tightropes. I sway too far to the left or to the right, pushing boundaries by showing up at the office uninvited or bending her strict rules with the clientele I inherited. But the last time I stepped foot into her bedroom was the night when Inez died.
“Come in here,” Lydia calls from her room. The door has been left open, and I can see the bags she came home with on her bed.
Fresh out of the shower, my hair is in a towel and the scent of coconut and mint lotion dries on my skin. I follow the sounds of music coming from her room to the doorway on feet still red from the hot water and knock on the doorjamb with pruned fingers. Lydia’s inside her closet and doesn’t hear me teetering at the threshold like I do on her tightrope of rules.
She emerges in the black dress she wore to the office, but she’s kicked off the Louboutins and walks around barefoot. Lydia’s long brunette hair is kept in a messy ponytail atop her head, and she’s wiped off the red lipstick, leaving only a pink stain on her mouth.
“What the fuck are you doing? We don’t have all night,” she says, waving me in.
I skirt inside, holding my hands behind my back, and look around at the simple room the most powerful woman in the city keeps.
“Camilla.” Lydia waves her hands dramatically to draw my attention. She shakes her head, unblinking. “Hello. Am I talking to myself?”
Her bedroom is unpretentious, but Lydia’s bathroom is extravagant. She sits me in front of her vanity amongst an impressive spread of designer makeup, hair products, lotions, and perfumes. She pulls my hair from the towel and brushes it out while I open tubes of lipstick and test every little glass bottle of fragrance she owns.
The last time Lydia did my hair and makeup was for the Carousel of Love Gala.
The first night I embodied Megan Rice.
“I can dry it myself,” I say when she plugs in the blow-dryer.
“It’s your birthday. I can do it.”
As she works the round brush through my hair with a look of concentration on her face, I find myself struggling to hold back tears again. After the blowout, she situates my hair in rollers and grabs another chair to sit in front of me. Biting my lip, breathing in through my nose, and looking anywhere but at her, I’m fighting a losing battle and Lydia notices.
