I pull a face. “Subtle.” Grabbing a dish towel for my wet hands, I head for the door with Pen flanking me. Before I unlatch the bolt, I level Pen with a warning stare. “Be nice.”
She bats her false lashes over all-too-innocent amber eyes. “I’ll be an angel.”
I pause and frown. “Didn’t you tell me some angels are malicious.”
Pen smooths a hand over her gold head wrap, faking confusion. “Did I say that?”
I roll my eyes and open the door. And then I look down. The girl on my front porch is barely five feet tall in her wedge sandals. Everything about her shines, from her bronze toenails to her gleaming mid-length butterfly locs.
Pen’s breath catches at the sight of her, upturned nose and all.
“You must be Livy,” I say, extending a hand. “Welcome.”
She offers me hers, and even though her skin is buttery soft, her hand plump like the rest of her, her shake is cool and abrupt.
“When was this house built?” she asks, ignoring my greeting. It occurs to me that I’m smiling wide, wanting to put her at ease, but her expression may as well be carved out of stone.
“Uh… 1901?” It comes out as a question, and I want to kick myself. I know exactly when it was built. Nanna made sure I knew the whole history of this house. I clear my throat and speak firmly. “1901.”
Livy presses her lips together and nods. “So slaves never lived here or helped to build it.”
The jambalaya in my stomach suddenly feels like a sandbag. “No. The house was my grandmother’s.” I don’t want to sound defensive, but I’m pretty sure I fail. “Her grandfather built it. He was born after the Civil War.”
I know by the look on her face I’ve said the wrong thing. Or one of many wrong things.
“Coming from a family line like that is your privilege.”
“You’re right,” I say, nodding. “Among other things.”
She blinks like I’ve surprised her. I glance at Pen who’s been noticeably quiet during this little exchange. But she’s staring at Livy. Not like the woman on our doorstep is challenging me and my heritage, but like she’s just turned a wad of aluminum foil into a gold crown.
“C’mon in,” I say, pulling the door wide. “This is Pen. She lives at the top of the stairs.”
Pen’s hand shoots out between us. “Hi, Livy. Has anyone ever told you you have a red aura?” Her words fire loud and fast. “It signifies passion and purpose.”
Livy offers her hand but she stares up at Pen, her lips slightly parted. Pen is a good ten inches taller than Livy. That’s just the beginning in terms of contrast. But I notice the handshake they share isn’t the same rushed, perfunctory one Livy gave me. Pen’s long, slender hand presses into Livy’s sumptuous one like a royal derriere into an ancestral throne. Pre-ordained.
My brows sweep up, and I don’t miss the way Pen’s pupils open like time-lapsed flowers. Livy’s chin is still pointed up regally, but her eyes execute a slow, slow—molasses-level slow—blink.
Oh, Jesus.
There’s actually nothing time-lapsed about their handshake. It goes on and on. Technically, it’s not a handshake. It’s a handhold. Neither one of them is moving.
I clear my throat. They startle and look at me like I’ve just popped out of thin air.
“There’s two rooms available on the second floor. I’ll take you up.”
Pen doesn’t follow us. She leads the way, chattering about the house and its energy, how it’s a seat for centering and expression.
She’s never toldmeit was a seat for centering and expression.
When we reach the first free room, Livy steps in to explore, and I catch Pen by the elbow before she can float in after her.
“What the hell?” I whisper.
Pen looks at me in amazement. “Isn’t she great?”
“I thought you said she might be a terrible person—”
