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I hate to admit defeat, so I turn the tables on him. "What's my middle name then?" And punctuate it with a tongue poke.
The second he smirks, I know I might be in trouble. "It's Cát Vy. Your father's college roommate was given the honor of giving you your middle name. He's Vietnamese and he chose the name because it's alliterative. Kiara, Cát Vy… but it also means something very important. It means lucky. Or a child blessing their family with luck. Sometimes you use it when you don't want to go by ‘Kiara’, especially in London because you think it's harder for English speakers to pronounce and therefore they're less likely to use it because you don’t like it when people call out to you. You think if they want to speak to you, they should approach you politely."
Now it’s my turn for my mouth to drop open. "Did you just google that?"
He laughs and takes my hand, turns it over and drops a kiss on the inside of my wrist. "When are you going to realize, I meant it when I said that I remember everything."
seventeen
Kylian.
When Kiara was fifteen years old, I caught her cutting school, stumbling around downtown with a bottle of cheap bourbon in her hand, surrounded by a bunch of her deadbeat friends. I had gotten so mad, she had so much potential, could’ve done absolutely anything that she wanted. But she was always getting into some sort of trouble, at home and in school. Nathan blamed it on being the younger child, and as the youngest of four brothers, something about her behavior had resonated with me. But that said, when I'd yelled out "Kiara" in front of her friends, she'd looked at me with such venom that later, when I’d driven her home, I asked her why she’d reacted like that. After a battle not unlike the one we’d just had about answering the question, she'd admitted that at school, everyone called her "Cát Vy" and she liked it because she felt she could pretend to be someone else while she was there, away from the shadows of being Nathan Yin's little sister.
We’d stopped for a coffee and a sandwich to help her sober up, and she'd pointed me to the park next to a Primary school. Black, no sugar. She’d asked for. And then after one sip, she’d stolen my sugar and cream packed before I even noticed. We'd sat drinking the coffee in silence watching the kids being let out of school and all the parents waving their children from their cars.
"I love this place. It reminds me of when Dad or Nathan would come to see me at lunch sometimes, and other times after school to pick me up. Sometimes they'd let me stay a little longer after school while I played with my friends, but they were never too far away, usually waiting with a drink or snack for when I was tired out from climbing the monkey bars. It was so nice to know that there was someone waiting.”
Later when I’d dropped her off, she’d made me promise I wouldn’t tell Nathan about cutting school, or else she would tell him that I was the one who’d given her the alcohol. To this day I don’t know if it was an empty threat or not, but the look on her face surely hadn’t looked like she was kidding.
The thought brings me back to the moment, both of us in varying states of disarray, her panties in my hand, standing in the entrance to my living room, having had sex. I tuck the undergarment back into my pocket and gently take her hand.
"Come on. I'll take you for a tour of the rest of my apartment. You haven't seen it, have you?"
She shakes her head. "And I hear that I'm one of only a handful of people who can actually say that," she says, her tone bone dry.
"Hey, whose fault is that? I asked Nathan to extend an invitation to you every time."
"Yup. He did."
And as has happened every time her brother's name has been mentioned, the air becomes a little heavier, making it a little harder to breathe. We'll have to talk about this at some point. But not now.
She squeezes my hand as we take the two steps down into my living area that is sparsely furnished with three large gray couches positioned around a round wooden coffee table that has followed me to every place I've ever lived. It used to sit as a small game table in the salon of my family home in London. We would sit there playing cards or board games long after we should’ve gone to sleep. It’s the single object in my apartment that reminds me of my mother. On the day she’d gone to the small designer’s studio to pick it out, she’d taken me. She didn’t often play the games with us; her favorite game was to choose which child she was going to shower her affections on while neglecting the others. I was only three years old that day, but I remember it like it was yesterday. So, when I graduated high school and moved to the United States, I took the table with me, although she had long gone. I'd taken it into the college maintenance department’s workshop and begged them to cut it down to a coffee table height. On the rare occasion it stirs up old feelings of bitterness and resentment, I just remind myself that, in the end, it’s just a beautiful table.
"That table is exquisite," Kiara says, walking over and running her fingertip along the beveled edge. "Where did you get it?"
I blink, making sure my face carries a neutral expression before I answer. "My mom bought it for our game room when I was little."
"Oh, Nathan said your mother... isn't around? Is she still alive?"
"Oh yes, very alive and well and causing problems for her four sons and however many former and current step children she has too, no doubt. She was never one not to call in any favor anyone owed her.
Kiara’s eyes widen. "Wow."
I wince, I hadn’t meant to share so much. "I'm sorry, I don't usually talk about her, and when I do... it's usually with the level of vitriol you just heard."
Kiara just waves her hand, as if saying don't worry about it. "Trust me. I get mommy issues."
That surprises me. Nathan and Kiara's mother was generally accepted as a pleasant lady, with no obvious personality traits that made her stand out in the community. Rich, liked to throw her money around, but not in an obnoxious way. Generous. And incredibly loved by her family. And she was always very kind to me, commiserating when my mother swung back into my life, usually between husbands, demanding attention, or money, or both.
"Want to talk about it?" I ask, as I walk over to her, pressing my hand against the small of her back and leading her over to the bar. My hand fits there in that curve, snug, like her body was molded to fit my hand.
"Not even a little bit.” Then she leans back so slightly, I can only sense it in the way her back presses against my hand. An involuntary action of comfort at my touch.
So I do the thing that I think will bring me comfort; I bury my face in her hair, inhaling deeply. Her hair has always been her most standout feature. Long with a rare kink pattern in it that makes it flow down her back in a black wavy cascade. And it smells like it looks: soft, feminine, beautiful.
A small “mmmmmm” rumbles out of my chest.
She pulls away and smiles up at me. "What are you doing?"
