She held me a little, right there out on the sidewalk and for the first time in weeks, my entire body relaxed. I hadn’t felt that since the night in my apartment when Willow worked her wild juju on me. My sister pulled away, touching my cheek and pushed the smile back on her face. “I’ll see you, Nash.” She kissed me then, pulling me into another hug that threatened to break my bones before I opened the cab door for her and she was off, back to her life away from me.
It was only when I turned around to head toward the station that I noticed Willow on her cell, glancing away from me, then back up again. I wanted to stop her before she walked off. I wanted to tell her I was sorry for being a punk, for trying to make her jealous. I thought about just grabbing her and kissing her and doing my best to forget all those walls I’d built to keep from failing myself or anyone else that came along.
Willow’s face was drawn, her skin paler than it had been last night. She carried a white box under her arm, more magical cupcakes I guessed, and from the way her hair fell more tousled than normal, I guessed she’d spent the night in her kitchen baking because it helped when she was restless, because it distracted her from the things she didn’t want to face. Same as me, Willow deflected.
She still had no clue that Natalie was my sister, and now she had just seen me say goodbye the “morning after”.
I wondered just then if Willow would talk to me, or if I’d messed things up with my childish jealousy so bad that she wouldn't have anything to do with me again. I would have messed up any chance I had with her, whether I wanted it or not.
Before I could make a move, Willow’s phone rang and she looked down at it, turning away from me, disappearing out down the street before I made it to the front entrance, and something knotted deep inside my chest, something I didn’t think I could loosen on my own. Something I knew I’d put there by being a coward.
Thirteen
Willow
I knew the type.
Slick, country club types who barely acknowledged the help. Someone else always handled them: their homes, their commutes, their lawsuits, their divorces. Even their children got shuffled and handled. Parties were no exception.
It didn’t matter that my grandmother had founded one of the most lucrative bakeries in the country. It didn’t matter that her small company went public after five years.
All that mattered to this crowd was that I was the cupcake girl and was, in fact, a complete weirdo. But sometimes, I couldn’t help myself.
“Don’t you have anything that’s gluten-free?”
“Gluten-free?” The question seemed ridiculous, considering the job I’d been hired for, I was told initially, had been intended for a bring-your-children-to-work party. Kids typically didn’t require anything but cake and icing and lots of both.
But when I got into the city, the theme had changed. It seemed no one wanted to bother with bringing their kids into this office, but everyone wanted to impress their boss lady, who happened to be the bitchy gluten-free queen standing in front of me.
“Yes, gluten-free. Surely you’ve heard of it.”
I had but since that hadn’t been stipulated when the order was made, I hadn’t adjusted my recipe. Besides, my God, gluten-free anything tasked like sand in your mouth the second it touched your tongue.
“Yes ma’am. We normally accommodate our customers who suffer from celiac disease, but unfortunately, when the order was placed there was no request made for gluten-free options.”
“Well… do you at least have bran muffins? Surely you can…” The woman went on, her pale face getting flushed as she waved a hand to the neatly arranged cupcake tiers. The order had come from the caterer’s assistant, Julian, who lived in my building, though I’d never met him before. Enough cupcakes to entertain the corporate suits and their kids for a breakfast sugar rush. Kids and cupcakes. No one mentioned healthy options.
But it wasn’t just the misplaced order that distracted me.
It was this woman’s aura. It was so dark and out of balance. One look at it crowding around her like a cape, hoovering like a wraith and I understood there was something very sad about the woman.
“Oh… oh, honey…” I started, silencing her with the tilt of my head and my fingers covering my mouth.
“What?” she demanded, flicking her red hair off her shoulder. “What the hell are you staring at?” When I reached out, nearly touching that dense area around her, the woman stepped back, laughing at me.
“You’re so… misaligned… you’re off balance. Like, something…” I squinted, moving around the table to get a closer look at her. “No. Someone is missing from your life.”
“You’re fucking crazy. The hell are you talking about? What’s misaligned?”
When I spotted these things in others, I couldn’t walk away. No matter who they were or what they’d done to me, I saw people and the pain that surrounded them. I didn’t know this woman. I only saw the cloud around her and how she wore that dark aura like a protection she believed would keep her from ever feeling any more pain. The weight of her aura and the overwhelming need to help her crashed into me. No matter how awful she was to me, she was a wounded soul in need of healing.
“Please,” I told her, offering her my hand. “I can help you feel better.”
It took several seconds for her response to come. When it did, when my focus reorganized and I realized where I was and what social orbit I’d found myself in, it was too late to make any excuse that would seem reasonable.
“You’re fucking out of your mind.” She jerked away from my offered hand, her voice carrying over the small crowd that had circled us. It was only then that I realized the attention we’d drawn and how I must look to them.
There, in the middle of this elegant room with its modern construction and high tech architecture, I stood in my worn apron stained with icing, my hair a riot of curls since I hadn’t bothered to do anything but twist it up in a knot at the top of my head.
The men wore designer suits, like the kind my grandpa wore every day to his firm or before he went into court. I knew these types of men—wealthy and well connected. All of them staring at me like I was an alien who’d infiltrated their world.
“I… just wanted to help…” It wasn’t a lie, but I still regretted the admission the second I made it. I knew this woman’s type too. If she wasn’t the wife or girlfriend of one of the suits, then she was one herself. Her clothes were designer as well, but form-fitting, elegant, paired with four-inch low-cut Louboutin vamps and diamond studs on her delicate ears.
“No one in this room needs anything but for you to take your sad little cupcakes and leave.” She stepped closer, grabbing my arm. “I should have never let them talk me into hiring you.” Her grip tightened when I heard someone call my name. “You don’t belong here.”
“What’s happening here?” The woman and I both turned at Nash’s voice. His expression was tight. His frown deep and if I knew anything about him, I knew that Nash Nation was pissed. At me.
Fourteen