When he and Cya appeared at the top of the ramp, loaded with luggage, Toni jogged up to them, relieving Dex of a few suitcases. “You pack light,” he said sarcastically, and Cya scowled.
“It would shock you the things I’m leaving behind,” they said bitterly. “Oh, Dex, all my rocks.”
“We’ll get you more rocks,” he promised, and they pouted.
“I won’t be able to afford them,” they muttered under their breath as they followed him and Toni down the ramp, dragging a wheelie bag behind them.
“Then we’ll rent a moving truck and come back for them,” he said, and their expression brightened marginally.
“Cylene, you don’t have to do this, darling,” their mother said, slithering forward, hands outstretched as if to embrace them. “Whatever they’ve got you mixed up in, we can help. You know we have connections. You don’t have to be scared of consequences. We have money.
“Is it drugs?” she asked, wringing her hands as Cya blinked at her. “Did they hook you on the crack-cocaine? That’s okay, sweetheart. There’s rehab for that, and it’s really quite nice. Like an extended spa stay, and very discreet.”
Recoiling from their mother, Cya scowled. “No, Mother, I’m not on crack-cocaine.”
“Dear gods,” she breathed, clutching her ruby necklace, “you’re pregnant.”
“That’s impossible. I don’t even have a uterus!” they cried, and Mrs. Vysov reared back.
“Keep your voice down! Do you want the neighbors to hear?”
“For fuck’s sake.” Shoving past her, Cya stalked toward the front door, only slowing when their father cleared his throat.
He didn’t block their exit, but he did move into their line of sight. They met his gaze, jutting their chin stubbornly, but Dex saw the quiver in their bottom lip. Still, they didn’t look away as their father scrutinized them harshly.
“I imagine you foresee us footing the bill for your new… lifestyle,” he said.
It wasn’t a question, but Cya answered it like it was. “No, I can foot the bill myself, thank you.”
“How do you expect to do that?”
A snarky smirk curved their mouth. “I have a job.”
Mr. Vysov’s eyebrows rose half an inch in surprise as his wife shrieked in dismay, hands steepling in front of her mouth. “A job?” She spat the word like a curse. “Please, tell me it’s at least a prestigious internship.”
Head held high, Cya grinned fully, and it was sharp and cutting and beautiful. “I’m a barista. At a coffee shop. In Purgatory.”
Wailing forlornly, Mrs. Vysov threw herself into her husband’s startled arms. “Ah, Róbyr, the service industry! Where did we go so wrong?”
“Good grief.” Quin rubbed the space between her eyes, and Toni patted her shoulder in consolation.
“You getting hella triggered, right now?” the Elas whisper-shouted, staring at Cya’s mom with wide, horrified eyes. “Because I am having flashbacks, and they are not pretty.”
“I need a Xanax,” Mrs. Vysov half-sobbed into her husband’s chest, voice sharpening as she barked, “Jorge! Where’s my Xanax?”
The Rhopa shuffled forward, a pill bottle already in his top right hand, and Cya’s father transferred her into Jorge’s other arms before the Sypent smoothed the wrinkles she’d caused in his tunic.
Facing Cya once more, he worked his jaw stiffly. “A… barista?”
“Yes,” they said without a hint of shame.
Dex knocked their elbow to get their attention. “Caffeinator percolator.”
They snorted. “Macchiatah killah.”
“Thought that didn’t rhyme?” he teased, and they wiggled their head haughtily.
“It does when you say it right.”
