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‘Don’t be silly! You know how cute you are. I just haven’t seen you dress up like this, in a little black number, since… well, since Dad died.’
It’s Violet’s turn to cry now. Jeez. The Clarke sisters are really going for it tonight.
‘It’s okay, Vee,’ I say, giving her a big hug. ‘Dad would’ve been so proud of you, going off to the jungle for a second time. And Borneo this time around — it’s an adventure most people can only dream of! Try not to worry about me while you’re gone. I can look after myself.’ We really couldn’t be more different, Violet and I.
She holds onto me tightly. ‘Thanks, sweetie,’ she says. ‘I know you’re a big girl now.’ Her eyes narrow and she smiles. ‘In a way. But you’ll always be my kid sister. I just wish I didn’t have to leave you like this. If it wasn’t such a good opportunity for me —’
‘Are you kidding me? It’s a game-changer. Youhaveto do it. Go get ‘em, sis. Find out everything you can about Southeast Asian bamboo or whatever it is you told me you were studying.’
Violet giggles. ‘Actually, thatiswhat I’m studying. Hole in one. But I won’t bore you with the specifics.’
‘That’s a relief,’ I say. ‘The guests are arriving soon, and if you start talking plants to me, you’ll probably get so engrossed you miss them all!’
Violet gives me a small, playful shove. ‘Hey, look who’s talking, Miss Fashion-Obsessed. We all have our own passions, don’t we?’
I hug Violet one more time and then wipe away the tears from her cheeks. ‘Now listen,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you let me finish up in the kitchen while you go get ready? Looks like the canapés are pretty much done. I’ll organize the other snacks — the chips and olives and stuff. I’m good at decorating. Oh, and I can get the champagne flutes on the table.’
‘You’re a star,’ says Violet. ‘Now I’d better go and make myself look like I haven’t just been bawling.’
Violet heads off and I set things up in the kitchen. Maybe I’m not so useless after all. I used to work as a waitress, way back when, and I know how to put out a good spread. I take the pink napkins Violet has laid out on the kitchen counter, and fold them into tiny, ornate fans, then place each one in a champagne flute. It’s a little nineties, maybe — the kind of thing my parents would probably have done at their parties, back in the day, but I happen to enjoy dabbling in the old-fashioned art of napkin origami, so why not?
I lay out the snacks across the counter, in such a way that they’ll be easy to reach and intuitively arranged for the guests — savory flavors in the front, sweeter foods in the back, for after. I arrange pitchers for the lemonade and non-alcoholic punch, and I pick out the best bottles from Violet’s liquor cabinet and position them invitingly on a drinks table. All in all, the place looks good.
Violet didn’t want to go all out with decorations or anything, given that she’ll be leaving in the morning and doesn’t want to have to do too much cleaning. Her apartment’s already sparkling, as always, and I imagine her guests tonight won’t really be the type to trash the joint. The Botanist Brigade aren’t exactly party animals.
I can hear the shower on in the bathroom, so I wander over to the balcony and take a seat outside in the warm spring air. Oh, Denver. It’s so bittersweet to see you.
I grew up in this city. In many ways, it feels like home. But when I moved to New York, it was a dream come true. It was meant to be the start of Addison Clarke, Version 2.0.
I feel regressed, just like a kid whenever I come back to Denver, because, well, Iwasa kid most of the time when I was here. Visiting the Art Museum with my dad at the weekends, school trips to the amphitheater and the zoo… Denver might look different these days — it seems to change and grow so quickly, becoming more and more modern and futuristic in its skyline every time I visit — but it’ll always be the same oldBroncovilleto me. All those memories put me right back in Little Space. It’s a friendly place, and a place I’ll always hold close to my heart, but…
Man, I miss New York. The crowds. The buzz. The eccentricity. There’s nothing like it.
Of course, it’s easy to romanticize a place when you’re not there. While I was living in New York, I was making clothes inspired by the trees and mountains and wildlife of my youth, so maybe it’s a case of grass is always greener.
‘Ahem.’
What the heck? There’s someone coughing behind me. It’s a deep, gruff cough. Definitely not my sister’s.
I jump out of my seat and turn around only to have the shock of my life.
There’s a man standing there, well over six foot tall. Well, to call him a ‘man’ doesn’t seem quite right. He’s a mountain. No, abeast. He’s wearing a black long-sleeved shirt and jeans, and he has biceps so big they’re straining to break free of the sleeves of his shirt. He has dark hair, a strong jawline with thick, dark stubble across the lower half of his face, and the most piercing blue eyes I’ve ever seen. There’s a leather bag slung over his shoulder, and a rigidity in his posture that I’d normally associate with a bodyguard or a police man. The craziest thing of all though, something I’veneverseen up-close on anyone I’ve ever spoken to, andcertainlynot anyone in my sister’s apartment, is that he has a tattoo on his chest. It’s a snake. A big, dark, inky thing, about to crawl up his freaking throat.
I feelsurethat this man is going to rob me. I listen out for the shower. It’s stopped running. Has he killed my sister already? Is he going to throw me off the balcony?
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I cry, trying to control the panic in my voice. ‘This place has security systems, you know. You lay one finger on me and it’ll set off an alarm so loud your eardrums will burst clean out of your ears.’
‘You must be Addison,’ says Mr. Man-Beast. I can’t help but notice it looks like he’s trying to hide a smirk at my sudden outburst. My feigned attempt at bravery.
My eyes nearly pop out of my head. ‘You know my sister?’ I ask. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of a doorbell, Mister?’ Try as I might, I can’t help but sound Little.
‘Finn Wilder,’ he says. ‘I tried knocking, but there was no reply. The door was open. I’m only ten minutes early, so I figured it’d be alright.’
So no apology then?
Mr. Man-Beast fixes his piercing blue eyes on me and then looks at the drinks laid out on the table. ‘Okay if I help myself to some punch?’ Before even waiting for a reply, he takes a glass and pours himself a generous measure.
Oh mygawd. This guy. First he’s allbreaky-and-enteryand now he’s allmake-myself-at-hometo go with it.
