Chapter 36

“Las Vegas, here we come!” It’s road trip time.

We pack up Tee’s car with a ridiculous number of snacks, crank up the music and roll down the windows. Both seat belts securely strapped (Saff double checks mine), we car-dance along Interstate 15. We snagged Micah’s cousin’s wedding invitation from the Johnsons’ fridge, so I enter the address into Saff’s GPS. Our destination is approximately four hours away.

I send Micah twenty-three texts, none of which he answers. Maybe his phone’s off, or maybe he’s gambling with our money, trying to increase his haul. So now, we’re tracking him down. Or rather, we’re tracking his mom down. Because we’re planning to tell on him.

“Men are scum,” I say, checking my phone to see if Micah’s magically texted me in the last five minutes. “Axel cheated on me. Micah stole from us.”

“There’s got to be an explanation. I totally believe Axel would steal from us. Micah—I just think there’s got to be a reason for this.”

“I know the reason. He’s ‘borrowing’ the money—he’s trying to win more in Vegas so he doesn’t need to take out loans. He probably plans to pay it back eventually, assuming he doesn’t lose it all. Simple.”

“I don’t think so, Cay. That’s not his character.”

“Character shmaracter. People take care of themselves.”

“Yes and no. I mean, of course, if someone’s starving or something, they do drastic things,” Saff says. “But except for super dire circumstances, people make choices based on who they are.”

“Okay, then how do you justify the ‘breaking and entering’ we just committed in the name of revenge? That’s not your character. You’re law abiding to a fault. You might be the most honest person in the history of the world.”

Saffron is quiet for a few moments. Finally she sighs this long, drawn-out, leaky-tire kind of sigh. She pulls off the road and turns down the music. It kind of freaks me out. “Um, Cayenne?” Saff’s voice is tiny, almost childlike. “I have to tell you something.” Saff sucks in a huge breath. “I, uh . . .”

“Spit it out. Are you a vampire? Or a spy?”

Saff’s face is serious. “I don’t have the gene mutation.”

“Whaaaat?” It takes me a few moments to register what she just said. “That’s fabulous!” The pressure that’s been in my chest for weeks dissipates. “Wait. Why the hell did you tell me you did?”

“I didn’t actually tell you I did. I just didn’t tell you I didn’t.” The classic lie of omission.

I study her face, trying to understand. “But we were planning joint surgeries. To do it together.” Complicated emotions are flickering in my gut. Relief—she doesn’t have it, she’ll be okay. Anger—she convinced me she had it and pressured me to make a decision. What if I’d had sex with Axel and gotten pregnant? Hopefulness—maybe now I can buy myself more time to figure out how to handle this . . .

“I’ll still do it with you. Look, our family history is horrific, whether or not I’ve got the gene mutation. I bet insurance will still cover the surgery as a precaution.”

I might cry.

This is maybe the most generous thing anyone has ever been willing to do for me. I intend to talk her out of it, but I’m too choked up to get anything out. So Saff goes on, “I wish I was the one who had this stupid gene mutation. I’d trade with you in a heartbeat. I know I’d do the right thing. I’d be proactive. I’d do anything to be here for you. And I’ve been afraid you won’t do the same for me. Me telling you this—it can’t change anything.”

“Yeah, but it does. For you—not me. It has to change your outlook.” I put my hands on her shoulders and awkwardly twist her so that she’s facing me squarely. “I promised you, Saffron. I’m going to take care of myself. And now, I’m going to make you promise me something. That you’ll make the best decision for your specific medical risk. Not for mine. You’re right that you still have the family history, and you could still be at risk. But you do not have to have surgery just to make sure I do. I’ll do it because I want to be here for you—and for myself, because I want to be here too. Let’s just keep the appointment with the specialist, and we can figure out what’s best for each of us.”

“Okay.” We do an awkward car-hug, and it feels like we’re sealing a deal.

We could sit here on the side of the freeway forever, but I really do want to find the laptop. “Any more bombs to drop before we hunt Micah down?”

“Nah.” Saffron wipes her eyes and starts the car. “We better get on this. What’re we going to say to Alicia?” She pulls back onto the road.

“Your kid stole our only connection to Mom. We want it back. Let’s not make it about the money.”

“Sounds about right.”

“You know what?” I swallow a bite of licorice. “It’s not about the money. I don’t even want to know how much it is. I just want to watch the rest of the videos.”

“For real, Cay?”

“Yeah. At first I was hung up on the idea of a new car. But now that you’re my chauffeur, maybe I don’t need one anymore. I’m a much better car dancer when I’m not trying to drive.” I wave a Dorito under her nose. “Want one? It’s Cool Ranch.”

She snatches it from my hand with her teeth, which is a questionable move given that she’s driving. And she’s supposed to be the responsible one. Mid-crunch, she says, “Okay, so Cayenne, I have a suggestion. Let’s just agree now, let’s make it official, that no matter how much money Mom left us, we’ll leave it where it is for five years.”

“It pains me to agree with you. But okay. Even if I go to college, I can take out student loans. I don’t have to pay them back until I’m done.”

“Did you just say college?”

“I’ve been considering it.”

“Wow.” Saff tips her sunglasses down to her nose to study me. I point back at the road, which is where her eyes should be. “Hey, uh, will you be disappointed if it’s not much money? It might not be.”

I can’t deny that having a nest egg would be nice. “A little,” I admit. But everything about Mom’s gift to us—seeing her face, hearing her voice, getting access to her innermost thoughts—is more than we ever expected to have. It’s rarely occurred to me to think of us as lucky, but considering that I assumed I’d live the rest of my life without a real sense of connection to our mother, I can’t think of any other word.

✱✱✱

“You are not a good influence on me,” Saff tells me from the next stall. It’s an hour later and we’re hiding out in a hotel bathroom, changing from our shorts and T-shirts into the dresses we wore to Tee’s hospice fundraiser gala last year. “First breaking and entering. And now, crashing a wedding.”

“In your case, I take that as a compliment.” Her flip flops and wrinkled clothes are on the bathroom floor, which is kind of grossing me out. It’s a clean bathroom, but still. I pull my deep purple spaghetti strap over my shoulder, gather my stuff, and step out of the stall to examine myself in the mirror.

“At least it’s a big wedding. No one will realize we don’t belong. They’ll each think the other side of the family invited us.” I pull out lipstick and eye liner, leaning in to the mirror to apply.

Saff joins me, wearing her clingy teal dress—a thrift shop discovery for which I take full credit. We jokingly call it the Barbie dress because it makes our breasts look big and our waists small. The fact that Saff once wrote a persuasive paper on the problematic nature of Barbies’ unattainable chest-waist-hip ratio did not deter her from adopting this name for the dress.

I grin at her. “You look hot, girl.”

Our eyes connect through our reflections and we smile. “You don’t look so bad yourself,” she tells me. “Too bad we’re here to harass Micah, not to find you a new boyfriend.”

“Hey—I know you’re not a big fan of eyeliner, but can I just use a little?” I see her hesitation. “I promise I won’t blind you or make you into a clown.” I think that’s partly why she doesn’t wear it, because if it’s too heavy it comes off as garish. But if it’s light and smoky, I think she’s gonna look amazing.

For a second I think she’s composing a snappy comeback, but instead she just agrees.

I pull her toward me and go to work. “Okay. Stay focused. We have to find Alicia, pull her aside, tell her what an unbelievable asshole her son is being, and get that laptop back. In and out, you understand?”

“In and out,” she agrees, staring up so I can line under her eyes.

Once I’m finished I pull her hair out of her clip so that it frames her delicate face. I tousle it a bit and I spin her toward the mirror.

“You are beautiful, Saff,” I tell her. “If Mom was around, she’d be telling you that all the time. Tee’s not the type to say those warm-fuzzy things, and neither am I. But you are drop-dead, model gorgeous.”

Her expression tells me what she wants to say—that it doesn’t matter, that beauty is only skin deep, and who you are is what’s important. All those things are true, and I’d agree with her if she said them. But I think it’s also important to be comfortable in your own skin. Some of the time I’m not sure Saff is. So when she takes a deep breath, that glimmer of flush crosses her face, and she says “Thanks, Cayenne,” it feels so freaking good.

Saff examines herself in the mirror, seeming pleased. “You did a good job,” she tells me. “Honestly, I like myself best without makeup, but every once in a while it’s fun to do something different. Though I’ll never understand why you do this to yourself every day. It takes so much time!”

I try not to laugh. How can sisters be so different? I love lining my eyes. It’s comforting and part of my routine, like brushing my teeth. It doesn’t feel like a waste of time to me. But that’s the point, right? We should do whatever makes us comfortable. We each get to choose.

I snap a few selfies of us, and when I scroll through the images to view them, I’m reminded of the videos I took of the Minions. I still want to compile them all for a gift for Tee, and truthfully, for myself too. So I don’t forget their four-year-old sweetness when they’re snippy tweens.

By the time we step into the reception hall, we’ve missed the meal. Waiters mill about the room, gathering used plates with gloppy food remnants.

The two brides are swaying together in the middle of the empty dance floor, finishing up their first slow dance. They’ve coordinated their outfits, and their pearl color scheme matches perfectly. One wears a floor-length gown that’s lacy across the shoulders, and the other a fitted strapless dress and dangly earrings.

The DJ speaks over the microphone. “Okay, now. Let’s get our Dear Old Dads out here for the father-daughter dance.”

Two middle-aged men step in to dance with their daughters. “This is really sweet,” Saff whispers behind me. I’m not one for tearing up at weddings, but my eyes are welling. Everyone looks so comfortable with each other and with themselves. If I ever get married, I hope I feel the same way.

“Can you picture Dad dancing with you at your wedding?” I ask Saff.

She sucks a breath in, like the thought surprises her. “Yes,” She says, side-hugging me. “I totally can.”

“I can too. Which is strange—because for most of my life I didn’t think I’d ever get married, and of course I didn’t think we’d know our father. Go figure.”

Saff nods. “I’ve been super hard on him, but I know he loves us. Like, that’s not even a question in my mind. And he wants to be there for us, in his own awkward way. Even if I think he let us down in the past, I wouldn’t not want him to be part of our lives now, you know?”

I nod. Now that she says it, I know I feel the same way.

“Okay, let’s do this. In and out!” Saff disappears back into the crowd. I can’t pull myself away from watching the dance floor. I’ve always been a people-watcher, but in this moment, I find myself studying all the women especially carefully. We’re each so unique—there are so many ways to be a woman. So many ways to be a wife. And a sister. And a friend. And even a mother. We come in a million flavors.

A hand taps my shoulder. I spin, feeling guilty for stealing part of this couple’s wedding experience.

Micah. In a suit, with his hair gelled to the side, and smelling delicious. “You look amazing,” he says, not seeming all that surprised or alarmed to see me.

“I came to rat you out. Where’s your mom?”

“Well that’s a nice introduction.” The music and chatter are loud enough that I’m half lip reading and half listening.

“I texted you a thousand times.”

“Your fingers must be sore,” he teases. When I don’t smile, he adds, “Cayenne. I turned my phone off during the service. Which was amazing, by the way. The entire wedding party danced down the aisle. Everyone was so pumped!”

I ignore his wedding commentary. “I’m sorry about your scholarship, but that’s no excuse to take our money.”

Micah’s face bunches, as though he’s fitting puzzle pieces together in his brain. “I took the laptop, which is mine by the way, so that I could revise another scholarship application essay. I would never take your money!” His eyes are wounded. “How could you think that?”

Ohhhh. Well, that makes a lot more sense. Why does Saff always have to be right?

“So this had nothing do with my mom’s videos?”

He flushes. “Well . . . the thought did cross my mind. I didn’t think you and Saff were ready to finish the money video. I figured it wouldn’t hurt you to wait another week or so.”

“This is very confusing. You are confusing.”

Micah places two hands on my shoulders. His skin is warm. “I love you guys, Cay. I want this to go well for you.”

I freeze, fish-hooked by the “L” word. “You lov—”

“I love you,” he reasserts. “You’ve been thrown a helluva lot of curveballs. Some of them you’ve thrown yourself, some were just handed to you. This money can help you out. But not if you’re going to fight over it.”

Part of me wants to step away from his touch. Part of me wants to curl into it like it’s a blanket. “Well, you’re in luck. On the drive here, I decided I don’t care about the money. I can take out a loan if I go to college. Saff and I are on the same page.”

His deep-dish dimples indent with confusion. Those are some multi-purpose dimples—they jump into action for an array of facial expressions. “I’m sorry. The music’s kind of loud. Did you say college?”

“Sheesh.” I place my own hands on his, and my elbows bend up, making me feel like a chicken. I pull his hands away from my shoulders, but gently, and I hold on to them. “Why is that so surprising?”

Someone bumps into me from behind. “I found Alicia!” Saff hollers over the music, holding a plate of tiny cakes in her hand. She points toward the dessert table, where Alicia—who’s ditched her farmer garb for a svelte red dress—stands chatting with a group of women. “We’re going to tell your mom what you did!” Saff hollers at Micah. Her threat probably would have been more impactful without the tiny carrot cake square, the lemon meringue circle, and the double chocolate fudge block that she’s waving in his face.

I quickly explain. “Saff, he just wanted to use the laptop—he wasn’t going to take our money.” While she digests this, beet red with embarrassment, I turn to Micah. “You’ll have to forgive us for jumping to conclusions. But I think we deserve props for bringing tattling back into style.”

“It is a dying art form,” Micah agrees, his cheeks dimpling. “It made a brief comeback in early elementary school, but began losing followers by third grade.”

“We’ll try to do it with style,” I reassure him, still holding his hands. “Perhaps over the microphone at this lovely wedding?”

Saff nearly drops her plate of sinful indulgence when she sees our intertwined hands.

“Although, I suppose we could make a deal,” I concede. “Spare you all that public humiliation, if you can hand over the goods.”

“Strategic move,” Micah says. “I hear blackmail is a hot new trend.”

Saff holds the plate out to Micah. “How about bribery? Does that work?”

He drops my hands to take the plate. “Tempting.”

“I’m not sure I can handle committing any more crimes,” Saff says a little plaintively.

“Her stamina was impressive today,” I inform Micah. “But when her conscience kicks in, we all need to take cover.”

Micah surveys the room. The dessert cart has created a massive sugar high, and the dance floor is full. “Well, in the spirit of self-preservation, I say we ditch this party and go get that laptop. It’s in my hotel room.”

I high-five Saff. “See how easy that was?”

She grimaces. “Yeah, if you don’t count our run-in with the law and our four-hour drive . . . pretty easy.”

✱✱✱

Twenty minutes later, we all sprawl on Micah’s cushy king-sized bed, with the laptop in front of us. He backs up the video clip by a few seconds. I gaze at Mom’s bony hands, holding the shabby piggy bank. “—how complicated money can be, how it can insert itself into the cracks and crevices of a relationship and push people further apart . . . that I haven’t given it to you yet. I wanted to wait until you were both mature enough to handle it.”

I kick Saff. “Whaddaya think? We mature enough?”

“That’s debatable, but let’s go with this.”

“You probably know that although I had a solid job, with good benefits, I didn’t make a ton of money. And since I’m leaving this world pretty young, I haven’t had many years to build up a nest egg for you both. But there’s one thing I did right. When I gave birth to you, Cay, and I realized that I’d likely be a single mother, I took out a life insurance policy on myself. For five hundred thousand dollars.”

I clap a hand over my mouth.

“I selected Alicia as the trustee, and you two as the beneficiaries. I instructed Alicia to use half of the money to pay Aunt Tina a stipend every month. Right now she’s working at a frozen yogurt shop, for Pete’s sake. There’s no way she can raise two little girls on that kind of money. So each month for the last fourteen years, Alicia has been sending her a check for your living expenses.”

Micah pauses the video and whips out his phone to do the math. $250,000 divided by 14 years equals $17,857 . . . divided by 12 months a year equals $1,488 per month.

“Wow. We should’ve gotten everything we ever wanted for that kind of cash.” For a moment I think of the Barbie Dreamhouse I begged for but never got.

Maybe Micah can see my wheels turning, because he tells us, “Don’t forget, she had to pay her rent, and now her mortgage. She paid for your school supplies, for doctor and dentist visits, for clothes, for birthday presents . . . and I believe you did have a car before you demolished it, right?”

“Oh yeah. That.” Fair enough. Barbie Dreamhouse would only have been fun for about a week anyway.

Micah presses play.

“The remaining half has been invested by Alicia for you two. It may have grown or it may have shrunk in the last fourteen years. My hope is that you’re responsible enough to handle this kind of money. I know you’ll have college expenses very soon, and that is why I’m giving it to you now instead of later.”

College. It keeps coming up.

The camera focuses on a piece of paper. The life insurance policy.

“Ideally, I’d love to see you both keep this money in investments for as long as possible. But if one of you needs to use your half of this money, Alicia’s instructions are to split it evenly between the two of you. One of my biggest fears is that this money will divide you. Please don’t let it do that. This is a gift to ease the struggles of life. Please don’t allow it to be a burden or a stressor.”

“I changed my mind. I want a car.” Both Micah and Saff whip their heads toward me with alarm scribbled all over their faces. “Joking!” I insist.

“Alicia has the account information. Please consider just keeping all the investments in place until it’s absolutely necessary to move them.”

The camera shifts again to the piggy bank. “Good luck, sweets.”

“That’s a lot of money.” Saff speaks breathlessly. “Even split in half.”

“Then no more sharing desserts,” I say. “If I’ve got this much money in the bank, I’m getting my own.”

Saff smiles. “I can live with that.”