Page 13

I started crying in my car, somewhere in between Anders’ suite and home. I don’t know why—probably a combination of exhaustion and pent-up frustration. There are a hundred things flying through my brain, all making the tears unstoppable. Micah Watson has been in the same county as me this week and I have had exactly one sighting.

On top of that, I can’t have what I’ve been pretending for my entire life that I don’t want. Since I was a teenager I’ve known that I can’t have kids. I think I’ve made peace with it. But not only is Imogen a daily reminder of everything that I’ve been talking myself out of for thirteen years, she’s exactly the kind of kid I would want—if I could have one.

Then, the cherry on top of this pathetic sundae is Anders. The man is nothing like I expected. I know he wanted to touch me tonight. He’s pretty easy to read. And in a reassuring, but unwelcome, display of self-control he didn’t make a single move. He was a perfect gentleman. He’s another thing I thought I didn’t want, which—SURPRISE—I do want. Very much. And I can’t have him, either.

Pity party for one?

In this mental state, all I’m certain of is that life is categorically unfair and I need every minute of sleep I can get before my alarm goes off in—I check the time on my phone—six hours. Now I’m really bawling. I push through the door and stumble into the entryway, kicking off my sandals and dumping my bag on the floor.

“Sunny? Are you okay?” My mom is tucked under a quilt on the couch with a thick book in her hand.

“Mom?” I ask, just as my brain registers my mom’s cinnamon clove air freshener and the fact that I’m standing in her foyer.

Oh, lovely. I drove to my mom’s house. Again. I made the short commute from the resort to our family home so many times as a teenager, especially after working the late shift in the dining room, that I’m ashamed to say this isn’t the first time I’ve ended up here on autopilot.

“Ugh.” I shove my feet back into my shoes, and the tears ratchet up about ten notches. My face is going to be a swollen mess tomorrow if I don’t get this under control. I’m grumbling about all that is wrong with the world when I swipe my bag from the floor.

Probably for the best, my mother stops me before I can drive home in this state. She wraps me in one of her all-encompassing hugs and my entire being sighs with relief. Her familiar lavender scent reminds me that my world is not ending. There is hope. Mom is here.

She pulls away to look at me. “You’re exhausted. Sleep here. I’ll find out what happened to your face in the morning over birthday waffles.”

“Dog.” It’s the only explanation I have the energy for. I drop into my favorite armchair. My eyes are already closed. I didn’t quite make it to my old bedroom. “And I can’t do birthday waffles because they’re shooting early tomorrow and I have to wake up in like forty-five minutes.” I’m exaggerating, I know. I tend to bring the drama when I’m sleep deprived. This is why I’m usually such a stickler about my schedule. I prefer to be of sound mind.

“We can make it work. What time do you really have to be there in the morning for Imogen?” That’s my mom, always coming at me with logic and reasonable questions.

“Six.”

“Tell you what. Get some rest. In the morning you can pick up Imogen and bring her here for birthday waffles. I’ll even keep an eye on her so you can take a nap. Sound good?” She pulls me to my feet. “You can’t miss birthday waffles. That’s a crime.”

The tears won’t stop. I will never be as good at life as my mother. She opened a successful resort that has brought rejuvenation and happiness to hundreds upon hundreds of our guests, all while raising five children. The bar is so high, I’ll need an Olympic-sized trampoline to reach it. I’ll never have a family to take care of anyway, so maybe it doesn’t matter. When I tell her as much, she frowns and chuckles at the same time.

“You really are tired. You’ve been pushing too hard for too many weeks. I’m dragging you to your room now.”

And she does. I don’t even remember my head hitting the pillow.

Sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff…

The sound pulls me from sleep, and before I register what is making the noise a wet dog nose stamps my cheek.

“Argh!” I swat it away and my hand is met with a slobber-soaked tennis ball and steamy dog breath. “Hairy?! What are you doing in my old room?” What am I doing in my old room?

The dreamlike events of the previous evening flood into my mind and I pull the flowery sheets over my head in embarrassment. I got awkwardly close to Anders to the point that he sent me home. Then I had a crying jag worthy of a Disney princess and accidentally drove to my mom’s house. Basically, I am killing it at life.

At least the sun is shining .

Which means I am late.

A few swear words fly through my mind as I track down my cell phone and scramble out of bed and into the hall. Hairy barks, thumping down the stairs behind me.

“Mom! I slept in! I’m going to grab Immy and we’ll be back in a few!” I holler across the house. I don’t even know if she’s around to hear me, but I don’t have time for a polite goodbye. I hope I didn’t totally screw up Anders’ day.

“We’re in here!” a familiar voice calls from the direction of the kitchen. Immy?

I look down at the dog. Hairy is here. Why is Hairy here? My groggy brain is buffering. No important details are registering.

I wander into the kitchen, where I find Immy standing on a dining chair next to the counter. Over her nightgown she’s wearing my mother’s apron that reads “Hands off my buns” with a few strategically placed cartoon dinner rolls. Her hair is still pulled away from her face in the two braids I gave her last night. I have so many questions.

“Happy birthday, my Sunflower!” My mother circles the counter and wraps her arms around me.

“Yeah, happy birthday, Sunny!” Imogen smiles over a huge metal bowl of waffle batter. It looks like my mom has her folding in the whipped egg whites. That was always the job I got as a kid.

“Thanks, you guys.” I check the clock over the stove and find that I slept for over nine hours. Nine hours? “Um… I have so many questions. How did you get here, Im?” I rub my eyes. Maybe I’m still asleep and this is a bizarre dream? It’s possible.

“Miss Sarah came and got me and Hairy this morning.”

My mom must have clocked my worry, because she cuts in, “You needed sleep. That was obvious. Anders and I agreed that you’ve been pushing yourself much too hard and that you deserve to sleep in on your birthday. ”

“You talked to Anders about me? How? Why?” There’s embarrassing, and there’s my-mom-talked-to-my-celebrity-boss-about-me humiliating. Happy birthday to me. “I was extra tired last night, but I’m fine now. I’ve got this. I can’t believe I slept in so late.”

My mom sighs. “I can. You’ve run yourself ragged for weeks. Anders says you’ve had nothing but late nights and early mornings. He got my number from his manager and called me after you went to sleep last night. He was worried about you, especially after I told him you were crying when you got here. We decided that you should sleep in for your birthday and I would take care of Imogen this morning.”

“Mom!” I can’t believe this. But the fire of my mortification burns down to the steady, warm glow of feeling cared for. That was unbelievably thoughtful for a man who supposedly doesn’t respect women. I can’t afford to see this side of Anders. He’s easier to resist when I think of him as a womanizer.

“Happy birthday and you’re welcome,” she says with a mom look that silences me. The waffle iron beeps and she opens the lid. “This is ready. Should we cook up some birthday waffles, Imogen?”

“Yeah!”

I slump onto a barstool and watch while my mom guides Imogen. She shows her how to scoop a cupful of the lumpy batter and spread it onto the hot iron, where it sizzles and steams and fills the kitchen with the smell of happiness. Imogen giggles when she closes the lid and flips the waffle upside down.

“I made a waffle, Sunny!” She beams at me and my chest aches with pride over this little girl who isn’t mine. The joy she finds in her new skill makes my heart swell.

I can’t help my smile. “You did a great job, Im!” Confused feelings aside, I am giddy about this breakfast. Our family celebrates a lot of birthdays and these Belgian waffles have made me a lover of birthdays .

The crusty-eyed sleep fog is dissipating and I’m looking forward to the day. The ever-present tiredness that has clouded my mind for weeks is gone. I’m well rested and there are waffles on my horizon. I get to have dinner with my family and Immy tonight. Maybe my life isn’t tragic. Maybe I really was just overtired last night.

“I’m sorry about last night, Mom.”

She cracks open a can of diet Coke. “Don’t apologize for being tired to the point of tears, especially not on your birthday,” she says as she pours the drink over ice and pops a bendy straw into the glass. A tiny, pink paper umbrella materializes, and she props it on the rim. “We’re celebrating you today. Drink this.” She slides the glass to me across the counter.

I laugh, “The umbrella is a nice touch.” I take a long sip. Bubbles. Caffeine. Happiness. Diet Coke for breakfast. It’s good to be alive. I might have a problem. “I can’t believe Anders let you take her,” I whisper with a nod to Immy, who is busy over-stirring the big bowl of batter with her noodle arms.

“He was almost too okay with it, actually. It wasn’t the first time we’ve talked, though. I’ve met Oliver and Christopher. Signed all the stuff. He said he knew I was your mother by the matching braids.”

That makes me smile. It’s true. My mother and I—and even Immy—are wearing the same hairstyle today. My mother’s gray hair is pulled into her usual long, double Dutch braids. I did mine and Imogen’s last night before we fell asleep reading, so ours are looking less smooth and put together, but not terrible. Nothing about me is put together at the moment, though. I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes and I’m overdue for an appointment with my shower and toothbrush. It’s okay. I have a glass of Diet Coke and a waffle coming up.

It’s quiet for a moment when my mother says, “I have to say, he’s even better in real life.”

My gaze shoots to Immy, who, luckily for me, is completely engrossed in stirring the batter. I nod at my mom. “Yep. ”

“He’s also thoughtful. Generous. An attentive father. And he smells pretty good, too.”

Like I need to be reminded of his positive qualities. “I know.” I sigh.

“He wouldn’t be the worst option, is all I’m saying.”

“Mom, he isn’t an option.” She knows the position I’m in as his daughter’s nanny. “Can we just focus on the waffles?” I shoot a meaningful look in Immy’s direction to let my mother know that she’s listening and smarter than she gets credit for. She’s also a parrot. I don’t need to have this entire conversation repeated to her father—or worse, Oliver. No, thank you.

“I am focusing on the waffles ,” she drags out the word. “I think you could use some waffles in your life.” She wags her eyebrows.

I can’t believe my mother, whose intuition is usually spot on, is encouraging this. Hope sparks in my chest, but I smother it.

“ Waffles aren’t safe. They’re too rich. Too fancy. Way out of my league. I’m not opposed to waffles , in general. I’m just more of a Captain Crunch Berries type of girl.” I want her to disagree with me. I want to be wrong.

“How do you know waffles aren’t safe? Because I’m seeing otherwise. And waffles are not out of your league. You are smart, beautiful, witty, sensitive— waffles should be so lucky.”

My face burns under her praise. “You’re my mom. You are supposed to think that. But the sad reality is, waffles and Captain Crunch Berries don’t go together. Besides, even if I did deserve waffles, I’m not allowed anywhere near them. They are strictly off limits. I’m on a no waffles diet indefinitely, thanks to all the paperwork I signed.”

My mother smiles at me. “You're right. You always were my little rule follower.”

“My dad loves Captain Crunch Berries the most,” Immy interjects, slopping the batter-coated spoon onto the counter.

There is no way she understood that conversation, right? Please, Universe. Do me this one favor .

I’m saved when the back door opens and Joe and his fiancée, Indigo, come inside. She’s looking bright-eyed and adorable, as always, with her dark red hair piled on top of her head and my brother’s arm slung around her shoulders. These two are almost unbearable in their syrupy happiness with each other.

“What are you two up to?” my mom asks, while demonstrating for Immy how to safely remove the waffle from the hot iron, sliding it onto a white plate with a long fork.

“We’re here for breakfast,” my brother says, jostling past me to take the plate.

Indigo yanks his arm. “No, you don’t. You know the rules. First one’s for the birthday girl. Hand it over, sir.” She arches an eyebrow at Joe, who winks and kisses her cheek in response. Gag me.

But at least he passes me my waffle and wishes me a happy birthday.

“Thanks, Indigo,” I say, taking a dramatic bite of my waffle while making eye contact with my brother.

While Immy spreads a cup of batter on the iron, Joe, Indigo and I sit in a row at the counter.

“This is fun,” Indigo whispers to me as she shoots a look at Immy. “Is this your first time making waffles?”

“Yep. Miss Sarah teached me, but it’s pretty easy.”

I take another monstrous bite. “I think this is the best birthday waffle I’ve ever had, Im. Thanks for working so hard to make it.”

“I was just telling Sunny that she needs more waffles in her life,” my mother announces to the group, unhelpfully. “ Waffles ,” she repeats, flexing her loose bicep and nodding at Immy to drive the point home.

“Muscles?” Joe asks.

“No, waffles ,” Indigo repeats in her deepest voice, mimicking a burly man the best she can with her petite frame.

“Waffles?” Joe parrots, deepening his voice even further. “I’m not following. ”

Immy sighs, like her patience with my brother has already worn thin after this two-minute interaction. “Waffles means my dad, but Sunny thinks she is just Captain Crunch. But I told her my dad likes Captain Crunch the very best.”

That silences the room. The eyes of every adult woman are wide with panic. My mother’s face goes red. The sound of the grandfather clock ticking echoes through the house. The waffle iron steams.

I am in so much trouble.

“So, waffles must be working today, huh?” Joe asks Immy, looking thoroughly entertained by our discomfort.

Thankfully, his attempt to distract her and cut the tension works. “Yep. He works every day, that’s why Sunny comes over. She’s my favorite of all of my nannies. She takes me to Rollerburger and we go for walks with Hairy, except Hairy isn’t allowed on our walks anymore because she dragged Sunny down and she got all scratched up.”

It’s like someone put a quarter in Immy. She goes on and on, describing our hike, my fall, and even when we fixed my skunked hair. This kid doesn’t forget a thing. She’s also saving me from catching my family up on the last week of radio silence from me. The other adults in the room encourage her stories, egging her on and getting far more incriminating details than I ever would have shared. Immy is an entertainer, like her dad. She eats up the attention, getting more and more animated as her stories go on.

Around a mouthful of waffle she announces, “And Goldie is my second favorite ‘cause she called my dad Mr. Sparkle Dimple.” She shoves another bite of waffle into her mouth before she’s even swallowed the last one. “She’s so cool. She skates at her job .” Her near-hero worship of Goldie is evident in her tone.

That makes Joe laugh out loud.

My mother makes eye contact across the counter and mouths, “I. Love. Her.”

I mouth back, “Me too.” Probably a little too much. How am I supposed to say goodbye to this girl in a few months ?

Today was such a good day, I can’t let it end. After waffles—actual waffles, not the metaphorical kind—we hung out at my mom’s house. Imogen and I wandered through the small peach orchard, which is just starting to bud. We walked Hairy. I had a long, hot shower while my mother and Immy took naps. All of my sisters, plus Joe, Indigo, and Mercer, came over for dinner. We ate my favorite pork barbacoa salad with Brazilian lemonade, and I’m so full I won’t be able to eat for three days. It was loud and chaotic, with a little too much good-natured teasing about my need for waffles .

After dinner we moved to the back patio table for some fudgy birthday cake and a few rounds of our go-to card game. Now we’re surrounded by plates of half-eaten cake and cards. My sisters are teaching Imogen the rules of the game, and I’m blown away again at what a quick study she is.

The sky is a hazy lavender from some patchy storm clouds and the recent sunset, and the lights strung around the patio are helping us see our cards. A chorus of crickets starts up somewhere in the bushes, and in the distance a car engine is rumbling through the desert.

My mother’s house is remotely located at the base of a line of rocky, red cliffs. She has a million-dollar view of the parched landscape, but with time and attention, her yard and garden have become an oasis. Sitting on her back patio at dusk, listening to the crickets and the sound of my siblings and Mercer bickering and laughing over cards, is all I wanted for my birthday. This is my happy place.

Then Anders walks up the back steps, casually dressed in worn jeans and a white t-shirt that pulls across his broad shoulders and chest. He’s letting his beard grow in for the movie, and he’s looking tan from long days shooting outdoors. My heart thumps in my ears at the sight of him—Anders Beck—in my mom’s backyard .

I take it all back. A handsome movie star for my birthday? This is my happy place.

“Looks like I found the party,” he announces.

“Dad!” Immy cheers, jumping up to wrap her arms around his legs. Hairy barks.

My sisters, Willow and Sage, gasp in unison. Goldie drops her cards and they scatter across the table in the breeze. Joe does one of those chin lift salute things that guys do.

My mother chimes in, “Oh good, you made it! Did you have any trouble with my directions?”

“Not at all.” He’s looking right at me. Or am I imagining it?

“What are you doing here? I thought you were working late?” I have to ask, because if I had known he was coming to my birthday dinner I would’ve put some effort in. My hair is slopped into a haphazard bun on top of my head and my nerd glasses are in place. I spent the day goofing around with Immy, so I wore my softest yoga pants and a baggy t-shirt that I know for a fact has a hole in the left armpit.

“All done. We started early today. And your mom invited me.” His eyes crease at the corners when he smiles at me. “Happy birthday.”

I think I’m experiencing a full body blush. I’m warm from head to toe and my heart is tripping. How does that man make a birthday wish sound seductive? Somehow I need to communicate to him to tone down the charisma around my family. They’ll track it, latch onto it, and read way too much into it. And I’ll be teased about this until I’m seventy-five years old. My best shot is to treat Anders like he’s any other friend showing up at a family get-together. Act natural.

“Thanks! I’m delighted that you’re here!” I shout, springing from my chair like one of those inflatable car dealership guys. “Have a seat! We’ll get you some cake!” I shoot crazy eyes to each of my siblings that I hope communicates, “EVERYBODY STAY CALM AND ACT NATURAL!”

My mom follows me around the table to the back door. Meanwhile, my sisters are smirking and nudging each other, thoroughly amused and enjoying our celebrity visitor.

“Sit here!” Goldie moves down one chair, opening a seat next to the one I just vacated. “Glad you made it, Mr. Sexy Dimple Sparkle Pants.”

“Me too. Nice to see you again, Goldie,” he says as Imogen climbs onto his knee. Hairy curls up at his feet. The three of them look right at home sitting at our patio table. He scans the group. “Wow. Mama and Papa Pratt hit copy-paste when they made you girls, huh?”

Everyone laughs louder than the familiar joke warrants, and I cringe.

I push through the back door and make a beeline to the remainder of my birthday cake. I can feel my mother’s eyes on me. I grab a plate and start to chop a giant slice with a long knife. She places her wrinkled hand over my shaky, knife-wielding one.

“Sunny.”

I hack into the cake with more force than necessary. “Yeah?”

“Take a deep breath.”

“Why?” I slap the cake onto a paper plate, where it lands with a heavy thump. “Fork. I need a fork, and probably a napkin. Where are the napkins?”

“You need to calm down. He’s just a normal guy who happens to have an unusual job.” Her serene voice has an instant effect on me. I’m like one of Pavlov’s dogs, only instead of salivating at the sound of a bell, my heart rate drops at the sound of my mother’s voice. I’m so lucky I have her.

I take a deep breath. She’s right. He’s just a normal guy. Why am I acting like this?

You know why.

“I think I like him, Mom.” There is nothing filtering my thoughts before they leave my mouth tonight, which is going to be problematic.

“I’m sure you do.” She tosses her braids over her shoulders and pulls a glass down from the cupboard, filling it with milk. “One phone call with the man and I’m half in love with him myself,” she adds with a laugh.

“But it’s more than that. I mean, yeah he’s charming. He’s rich. Handsome” — my mother’s eyes widen and she makes a sound like a deflating balloon; even she isn’t immune to his appeal — “But I’m drawn to who he is as a person. He’s fun. Spontaneous. Thoughtful. He’s not what I thought he’d be.” I swipe a big fingerful of fudge frosting from the edge of the cake platter and lick it off. Chocolate will help.

“And you’re his daughter’s nanny.”

“Thanks, Mom.” She has never been one to mince words, which has its pros and cons. I usually appreciate her frankness, and I needed that reminder tonight, as much as I don’t want it. “I know nothing can happen, or will happen. I think that’s why I’m so nervous. I have all of these thoughts and feelings that have nowhere to go.”

She drags her finger through the chocolate frosting on the cake plate, joining me. “Then you need to talk about them, because if you don’t they’ll come out eventually. You’re like a shaken can of soda. It’s got to go somewhere. You just need to prepare for it. Choose the where and when.”

“Over the sink?” That’s where I would open a shaken can of soda.

“Yeah. Who’s your ‘over the sink’ person you can share these feelings with so they don’t explode all over Anders Beck?”

“I think we’re pushing this metaphor now.” I say, feeling squirmy.

“You know what I mean.”

I think for a second. “It’s you. Mercer. Indie. Joe. ”

She smiles. “See? You have plenty of people you can share with. Be smart with Anders. As much as I love to tease you about breaking the rules—and your need for waffles —no one can afford for this situation to go sideways.” She’s right. A lot of things hinge on this shoot going well. She smacks my bottom. “Now take that handsome man some birthday cake.” She hands me the glass of milk with a plastic fork. This is all so simple compared to the treatment he must be accustomed to, but I’ve never heard anyone complain about Sarah Pratt’s fudge birthday cake.

I stab the fork into the cake like it’s a flag on the moon and hold my head high. I’ve got this.

When we step back onto the patio, there’s a new face at the table. Eric has taken my seat next to Anders and he’s telling a story about a hike he did with Lauren Holly when she was a guest at our resort a few years ago. I guess he thinks since Lauren Holly and Anders are in the same line of work, they’d know each other?

I slide the plate onto the table in front of Anders, placing the glass of milk off to the side. He pops his dimple at the sight of the chocolate cake. It’s a far cry from mung beans and tofu. Pulling a spare chair up the table, I wedge myself next to Indie, who gives me a knowing smirk. She’s been on the receiving end of Eric’s stories more than once.

“Sunny!” Eric rounds the table and throws his toned arms around me. He’s always been a huggy guy. “Happy birthday, gorgeous! I got something for you.”

He pulls an envelope out of his back pocket and passes it to me. It’s bent and warm from being sat on.

“Thanks, Eric! You didn’t have to get me anything.” He really didn’t. We’re friends, but we’re not birthday gift friends. We’re certainly not butt-warmed-envelope friends. My face burns under the gaze of the people around the table—well, one person in particular. When I peek at him over the envelope, he’s not smiling like I expect. His brow is furrowed in a way I’ve only seen in movies .

I question him with my eyes and he pastes a phony half smile onto his mouth, taking a large bite of chocolate cake. Sliding my finger under the flap to open the envelope, I unfold a sheet of paper. It's a printed screenshot for the purchase of two concert tickets. “Fleetwood Mac tribute band?”

“At Tuacahn!” Eric is smiling so big, I swear his tongue is going to loll out the side of his mouth like a golden retriever’s. “It’s going to be so sick!”

“Thank you?” That sounded bad. It’s an incredible gift. I heard about this concert and wanted to go—I'm a Fleetwood Mac girl, thanks to my mom's influence—but I never got tickets because… life. And I love going to concerts at this amphitheater, nestled deep in a sheer sandstone canyon. I backpedal. “Thank you so much, Eric. This is really thoughtful.” But this feels like too much, and it’s two tickets. Is he coming with me? Is this a date? Can I give the second ticket to Mercer? Why did Eric put me in this position? I need more information.

Eric answers my nervous internal questioning when he says, “We can leave early and grab dinner. It’s Saturday night. I checked the filming schedule—you should be off the hook with babysitting early that day, right?”

My eyes dart to Imogen and Anders. His frown is back and aimed directly at Eric. I don’t want Anders or his daughter to feel like a burden. I’ve become fond of my days with Immy, and the side perk of hanging out in Anders’ suite, within sniffing distance of his cologne? That’s not bad either. Being bamboozled into a date under the guise of it being a birthday gift? Definitely not my thing.

“I’ll have to check with my boss.” I turn to face Imogen. “Hey boss, are you okay hanging out with your dad so I can go on a date with Eric on Saturday?”

She lifts her head off of Anders’ shoulder, and despite my joking tone, her mini scowl matches her dad’s. “I guess so. ”

Anders’ brow furrows at her response, but he’s silent. Maybe he isn’t okay with me being unavailable when he needs me? Well, he needs to learn to be okay with it. I had a whole life before he got here. No way am I allowing him to dictate how I spend my off hours. I don’t care if he’s used to having everything his way, or how sexy that dimple is. He can put that thing away. And now I’m scowling.

Then, Anders’ face relaxes and his frown disappears. He pastes on a smile, but there’s something different about it. It looks off. And it occurs to me—he’s acting. I would have never known it before this week, but this watered down smile isn’t close to the real deal. I appreciate the effort, but it’s too late. I’m still irked at him for being irked. We’re caught in an irk pickle.

“Sounds like a fun time, Eric,” Mercer says from her end of the table, sporting her standard conniving grin. I appreciate her attempt to lighten the mood that had started to turn sour. She reads me well.

“Yeah, it’s going to be sweet. I’ve always wanted to take Sunny out.”

He winks at me across the table, and I feel an inexplicable urge to dodge his flying wink. I don’t want this kind of attention from him. Eric has dated just about everyone who works at the resort who is single and has two X chromosomes. I’m feeling like I’m at the bottom of the dating barrel, which isn’t great. But he gave me a gift, so it’s awkward.

“I’m looking forward to it. Thanks, Eric—”

I’m cut off by a crack of thunder so loud it makes me gasp. Then, several things happen in slow motion: Hairy dives under the table, tipping it sideways over her enormous, furry body. Playing cards scatter and plates slide across the table. Worst of all, Anders’ cake and tall glass of milk spill all over his lap and Imogen. He bolts upright in the uproar, practically dumping Immy off his lap. Dishes clatter to the patio.

“Hairy!” Immy and Anders moan in unison.

The dog is curled into a giant, quivering donut under the table. Clearly she is not a fan of our spur-of-the-moment desert thunderstorms. Another crash of thunder echoes through the distant canyon and she whines like she can read my angry thoughts.

“Here. I have something you can change into, Immy.” My mother reaches out a hand to Imogen, who is drenched in whole milk. “Follow us. I’ll show you where you can get cleaned up,” she says with an apologetic look to Anders.

My mother takes them through the back door and I’m left with Clifford the Big Red Doofus shaking at my feet. What a mess.

“Hairy is freaking out. Let me put her inside, then we can clean up,” I tell my sisters. It’s hard not to slip into eldest sister mode in times of chaos. “Come on, Hairy.” I call her with a click of my tongue.

She ignores me. She’s a trembling ball of fur and anxiety, cowering under the table. “Hairy, come on. Let’s go.” Fat rain drops plop on the table and my hair. “Hairy,” I whine, tugging her pink collar. She won’t budge. I am Sisyphus and this mongrel is my boulder.

Rain is pelting all of us now. My sisters, plus Joe and Eric, scramble to gather the soggy cake dishes and ruined cards. The storm can wash away the milk. I have to get this dog—who is completely dry, thanks to the table—into the house before I’m drenched.

The downpour feels like someone opened a big, heavenly spigot to full blast. It’s pooling on the table top and in between my sandaled toes. “Hairy. Now,” I snap over the roar of the storm, in a tone usually reserved for exorcizing demons.

Finally, the dog bolts from under the table and into the back door, smacking the glass so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack the pane. I twist the knob and she barges past me into the house.

“Geez, Hairy!” I holler after her. She shoves under my mom’s long, rectangular dining table and curls back into her shaky donut. Poor scared, dumb dog. I shudder, turning back to the mess .

“It’s your birthday. We’ve got this,” Indie says, gesturing towards the house with her hands full of drooping paper plates. “Go dry off.”

I don’t need to be told twice. Shaking my head at Hairy, I march up the stairs, leaving a soggy trail on the carpet behind me. I’m eager for my gray sweatpants that have the name of my old college running down one leg in block letters. I know those holey things are here somewhere.

I barge into my room and jolt when I spot Anders standing in my closet. What in tarnation is he doing here?! His big arms are crossed and he’s grinning like he’s watching an old episode of The Office with my dresses and blouses.

“Anders?”

He pivots toward me, smirking like I didn’t just catch him snooping in my childhood bedroom. “Well, well, well,” he says in his slow baritone that makes my breath hitch. A strobe of lightning and a simultaneous thunderclap make his words menacing.

“What?” I inch into the room. The man is like a black hole—constantly pulling me in, and the mystery of what will happen to me when I get inside is as terrifying as it is exciting. But I have to know what’s in there. I’m allowing myself to be drawn in, fully aware that this can only end in disaster.

He doesn’t respond, but when I finally reach him, he nods toward a gap in my hanging clothing. There, hanging on the wall between two dresses that I bought in high school, is my worst nightmare.