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“Yes,” Rhea nods. “And I get it. I told you years ago when I first met her that she was pretty awesome. I don’t blame you for wanting to have something good in all of this… ugliness.” She sighs, and I can tell that’s not the word she wanted to use, but it’s all she could come up with. “I don’t blame you for trying to hold onto a little light in all this darkness, Rem.”
I consider opening my mouth again to tell her that it’s not as deep as she seems to believe, but she’s content to let the matter rest. If we can leave it at that without me potentially having to butcher my reasons for being drawn to her best friend, all the better. I don’t know how to convey to my sister that I’m drawn to Claire, that I have been from the first moment I saw her, but that it’s not because I think she can save me or make me happy. I decide to keep my mouth shut, and I do… until Rhea grabs a balloon and wraps it around the shopping cart handle.
She's grinning when I glance at her. I’d ask if she knows what that text on it means, but there’s no way she doesn’t. She grew up hearing Spanish spoken on the daily, and though she may not have cause to use it often, I don’t believe for a second that she’s forgotten it.
“What?” She giggles, feigning innocence. “It’s just a balloon.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “And it’s just a party.”
Chapter twenty-four
Claire
I take my time walking along the shore, letting the sand squish between my toes, feeling the sun on my skin, breathing in the salty sea. I didn’t even realize how tense I still felt until I’ve soaked in the peace the water brings me and felt it all ease like a rope being unknotted.
I’d change into a bathing suit and go for a swim, but I don’t want to have to wash my hair again before Remy’s home is filled with rich criminals and murderers in sleek suits. It’s weird that the thought doesn’t make me squirm any more than the usual amount given my dislike for social gatherings, but I guess I’ve joined the club. It’s less intimidating, I suppose, to be around people who are capable of wicked things when I am capable of wicked things too. I didn’t know it until Remy showed me, but I’m grateful for it.
When I get back to the house, Rhea is sitting at the counter with her back to me, adjusting a floral arrangement. I don’t immediately notice Remy, but I can feel his eyes on me as I join his sister at the island. “Morning.”
My voice shakes a little with the fear that she’s still holding onto frustration with me. She asked me last night if I orchestrated our friendship like some kind of puppet master, and while I know she’s hurting, I have to admit that her distrust cuts deeper than Mack’s blade did.
When Rhea turns to face me, she slides off the barstool so fast I think it’s about to tip out from under her. But it doesn’t, and she must not be suspicious of me anymore either, because she throws her arms around me and pulls me close.
“Claire,” She sighs. I hear her voice wobble just a little on my name, and it gives me the presence of mind to wrap my arms around her and return the hug. “I owe you a lot of apologies.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” I assure her. I betrayed her, in a sense, even when I thought it was the best thing for her. Remy asked me not to tell her when someone shot at me outside of their house, and he trusted me with information that I wasn’t supposed to pass along to his sister. She would be right to be mad at me, but she only squeezes me tighter for a second before letting go.
“We have a lot to talk about when I finish this.” She says it quietly enough that I know it’s meant for me alone, and I’m not sure whether that should make me as nervous as it does or if I’m just strung too tightly right now.
I only nod in response and then slip my hands in the back pockets of my shorts, staring at the counter that’s covered in vases. I don’t know how I didn’t realize it before, because there’s quite literally nothing but flowers covering the entire kitchen island. Given that I’ve never seen a kitchen so large, it’s actually fairly impressive.
“Umm,” I can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of my chest. It feels like we’re in a cheesy romance movie where someone’s desperately trying to win Rhea’s affection. “What’s with the flowers?”
“It’s a wake. You know, cause of the whole ‘dead dad’ thing.” Rhea says, like she’s just reminding me in case I’ve forgotten the whole reason we came to this country in the first place. “People love flowers at funerals. Because what better way to help someone get over the death of someone they cared for than by making them watch flowers wither into nothing?”
She laughs, but it sends a chill down my spine. I fail to suppress the shudder, and she doesn’t bother trying to hide her smirk. “Relax, Claire. I’m not fixating.”
“Fixating, dissociating… whatever you’re doing, I’m not sure it’s healthy.”
“Well, that’s rich coming from you.” She shakes her head, and when I don’t press her on what that’s supposed to mean, she relents with a sigh. “This is just me grieving. I happen to love yellow, so I got a little carried away.”
I narrow my eyes on her a little, trying to figure out what she’s not saying. I do know she likes yellow, but in all the years we’ve lived together, I’ve never seen her buy flowers.
“Our father hated the color yellow,” Remy says, stepping into the kitchen and slipping his phone into the front pocket of his pants. He looks good, dressed down like this. It’s a step down from the glory of his perfectly tailored suits, and I enjoy him with minimal clothing, but something about the simple black tee he’s wearing like a second skin makes me feel like I’m about to swallow my tongue.
“Hate is a strong word.” Rhea shrugs. “But it’s true. And it’s also how I feel about him.” She turns to Remy suddenly, dropping the yellow ribbon she was fluffing around one of the vases. “You don’t think it’s too late to cremate him with some of these?”
My mouth falls open in shock, but Remy only laughs. “Considering they took his body to the crematorium after the funeral, I’m going to go with yes.”
“Hmm.” Rhea sighs dramatically, lifting the scissors to trim the ribbon. “Shame.”
“it’s not like the flowers would be yellow after they were burnt anyway.” Remy laughs. “If you really want to stick it to him, you could just plant a garden of yellow flowers and scatter his remains in them so that he becomes yellow.”
“I’m not touching his remains.” Rhea drops the scissors with a loud clatter and plants her hands on her hips.
“They’ll be in an urn,” Remy says, waving her worry away with a dismissive flip of his hand.
“No,” she says, looking at me like she’s seeking back up. “I’m not touching his urn either. Dump him in the ocean if you don’t want him.”
