Page 63 of Stealing Blinds

SYLVIE

Consciousness hovers around me, my body rousing from the deepest sleep I’ve had in years. The telltale signs of life in motion have me stirring. The golden hue beyond my lids, the weightiness of my body, and the muffled sounds of others living. But I’m not ready. Everything will hurt when I open my eyes. I curl into a ball, smash my face in the pillow, and gift myself a few more minutes of my dream state—which is simply a memory I wish I could fall into.

“You’re doing it, Sylv,” my father cheers, spotting me while I cartwheel on the balance beam. “Look at you.”

“So good, angel,” my mother praises before addressing my father. “Is this really necessary? It’s her birthday.”

“Since when have we only focused on what’s necessary?” He’s quiet while I prepare for my back handspring, but as soon as I stick it, he hoots. “Our girl is going to the Olympics.”

“She’s six, Heath. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I want her to be a kid.” She pets my sister’s head, who’s sleeping in her arms, as if to emphasize that perspective.

“What are you talking about?” He gestures to me midair in a split leap. “Look how happy she is.”

I cast a cheeky grin in her direction because I am happy, and they rarely argue.

A puff of mirthful resignation escapes her. “I can’t fight both of you. And it’s not about this.” She lowers her voice even though we’re the only ones near the balance beam. “What was the lockpicking lesson for yesterday?”

“Backup plan.” He cackles—it’s a jolly sound that ricochets all over the gym. “She’s good at that too.”

She huffs. “It’s unwise to give her those skills if we don’t want her to use them.”

“I’m giving her a piece of us,” he says, and he almost sounds sad. “We might be living straight now, but this is who we are. I don’t want her and Flora to love a false version of me.” There’s a long stretch while I finish my routine, but by the time I dismount, his excitement is back. “I made a scavenger hunt for her birthday and put her present in a safe. Wait till you see how proud she’ll be when she cracks it.”

My mother can’t help but brighten. She palms his cheek. “And how proud you’ll be.”

As if some evil force refuses to let me bask in that, I’m immediately thrown into my twenty-second birthday—the last one he was alive for.

I’m in my dorm room, talking to my father on the phone. He can’t ever chat for very long, but he always checks in, and he’s got such great energy today.

“You’re really doing it, sweetie. I knew you would. I’m so fucking proud and so glad I’ll be there. I’m not going to wish you a happy birthday today. I’m planning on being home in about a month. It’s not a sure thing, but … I got this. We’ll do a scavenger hunt, for old times’ sake. One last childlike birthday. And since you’ve got the Olympic Team Trials in June and you’re going to blow them away, we’ll celebrate you graduating and ruling the world.”

“I don’t think a college education and qualifying for the Olympics are synonymous with world domination, but I’ll take it. I am Heath Jenkins’s daughter, so anything is possible.”

“You are the best parts of your mother and me.” He stalls there, and I know what’s coming. The ache is palpable. “Flora too. Give your sister a hug from me, whether she wants it or not.”

“Always,” I promise. “And I’ll wait for you to celebrate. I can be twenty-one for another month.”

“Perfect. I gotta go. I love you, Sylv.”

“Love you, Dad.”

My eyes pop open as a searing pain lances my sternum. I hate this day. I hate this week. I hate that time lessens the sharpness of his absence, but doesn’t truly heal the crater he left behind. And every year, I plummet into the depths of it again.

The ceiling fan spins, and my focus is tethered to it. The whirling rhythm is the only safe spot. Beyond that, the world is one empty vessel of my fucked-up reality.

Although my lack of pajamas debunks that theory. Last night’s reality was pretty great. Having Cash’s hands and mouth on me was practically a spiritual experience. Add in the steam and the reflection of me stark naked while he was dressed and eating me out—I’d never come so hard. Earth-shattering.

And that’s aside from him coming with me in the hallway. That was the most desired I’d ever felt.

With that guiding my thoughts, I rip my gaze from the spinning distraction and sit up in bed. Only to be mind-blown again.

The entire room is filled with—I do a quick count of the racks and come up with thirty—clothes and purses and shoes. Amy mentioned a new wardrobe, but I seriously underestimated the meaning of that. I crawl out of bed, grab one of Cash’s T-shirts from his closet to throw on, and peruse the attire. They’re all my size and style. Fit for every occasion. I certainly didn’t need this, and I’m probably going to have to tell him it’s too much, but for just a minute, I let myself jump and squeal like a little girl.

Once I disentangle myself from the clothes and accessories, I notice a cart with food on it. There’s fruit, a mimosa, a pot of coffee with cream and sugar, and a warming tray with bacon, eggs, and crème brûlée French toast that is utterly divine.

How the hell did he get all this in here without waking me up? Or maybe that is what woke me up.

As I indulge, I unfold a note next to the mimosa and read it.