“No,” Connor says, “I just really fucking hate you.”
Then the police officers begin to return to the car. Connor and I say a short goodbye to them and walk back up our driveway, distancing ourselves from Scott.
Connor kisses my hand. “On a gagné.” We’ve won.
I hear the slam of the police car door. And I expel the last wounded breath that Scott imprisoned inside of me.
“On a gagné,” I repeat with a rising smile.
We’ve won.
61
ROSE COBALT
I thumb through the rack of baby clothes in one of the largest children’s department stores. A-line pleated dresses, tulle skirts, peter pan collars—all in an array of pastel spring and summer colors. The boy’s fashion line is nautical-inspired with striped shirts, khakis and jean material.
My lips lift at the sight of a teal floral dress with a white collar. No zebra-prints, no frogs licking flies or monkeys with bananas. The simplicity, the femininity, is all my style. I pluck the dress off the rack and inspect the tag.
There it is: CCB with a small inset HC.
Loren sidles next to me and hands me a lemonade. “Ew,” Lo mock cringes and puts his hand up to his eyes. “The smile is back.”
This particular department store is closed for a party, everyone from Hale Co. in attendance, and instead of schmoozing with men who’d rather do the opposite of everything I tell them, I just join the company of my ultimate reward.
These clothes. This fashion line. In a department store.
“Get used to it, Loren,” I retort.
He tilts his head at me. “I already am.” It’s a small, actually nice moment between us, and I’ve realized that working with him isn’t so bad after all. I mean—it’s not ideal but it’s not horrible either. God, complimenting Lo will always be a feat.
He nods towards Mark and Theo and all the other employees who gather around the boy’s clothes. “If you keep it up though, they’re going to think you got what you wanted.”
“I did get what I wanted,” I say. “This is my victory lap.” I set the hanger back. “Maybe in time I won’t have to pretend to despise all the things I like in order to be heard.”
“I want that for you too, you know.”
“Is this your way of saying that you’re always on my side?”
He lets out a short laugh. “Let’s not push it, Angelica.”
I narrow my eyes. “That comment alone makes you more Angelica than me,” I always note. He flashes a dry smile, not denying the truth. We both turn into bratty, hostile kids from time to time. I sip my glass of lemonade, avoiding work talk amongst my lovely coworkers.
“Have you checked Twitter recently?” Lo asks me.
“No. I’ve logged off since the press conference.” I didn’t want anyone to ruin Connor’s speech for me. He was brave, and having people say he doesn’t love that bitch! They’re using each other! This is all so fake! would’ve tarnished something beautiful.
Lo suddenly reaches into my black handbag, and I whip away from him with wide, wild eyes.
“Excuse me?” I snap.
He gives me a sour look. “I’m trying to get your phone.”
“You can’t just go through a woman’s purse.” I press my lips together. He hasn’t learned since Lily hates carrying purses.
He reaches for my handbag again, and I slap his fingers away. He leans closer and says beneath his breath, “You just hit your boss, Rose.”
I poke his chest with my finger. “Oh look, I accidentally poked my boss with my manicured nail.”
“Your talon.” He swats my hand away and then ends up taking his own phone and spinning it towards me.
I don’t understand. “What’s this?”
“What I’ve been trying to show you—holster the glare, ‘gelica. Just read.”
“Fine,” I grumble and collect his phone. It’s a tweet from Lily.
#RCC This is love.
RCC is my initials and Connor’s. Lily attached a photograph to the tweet, one of Connor and me from Mexico last year. I’m pregnant, our yacht lounge chairs tucked close together. My yellow-green eyes are pierced on Connor, and his grin towards me is equally as prominent. Fire to water.
There are 4.8k retweets and 12k favorites. I scroll through Lily’s feed and it’s filled with similar pictures of my dynamics with Connor. Some candid that she snapped without us noticing. Like at the lake house slumber party, where Connor and I were staring at each other for a long, long moment to see who’d concede first.
She wrote: #RCC This is love. #nerdstars
My heart swells.
“She’s been doing this for weeks,” Loren explains. “Look at what’s trending.”
I click out of Lily’s profile, and I see more tweets with a similar hashtag.
@morningside32: #RCCthisislove when intelligence is sexier than abs.
@heatherveronica: #RCCthisislove when you play chess with me, and we refuse to let each other win
@fashionpleeeaze: #RCCthisislove when you look at me like you love me, no matter what mood I’m in :)
@neverneverland: #RCCthisislove when we share secrets behind a newspaper <3
@hearmeroar29: #RCCthisislove when I’d rip my hair out to protect my daughter & you’d shame the media for shaming us.
My fingers are frozen to my lips, overwhelmed. I’d question how all these people know some finer details of my relationship with Connor, if Lily hadn’t taken so many photos of us. She posted so many honest moments with Connor and me—things I’d never think to capture, things I’d never think to share.
It makes me realize how much love my little sister sees between us, and now how much other people are beginning to see too.
The worldwide trending hashtag: #RCCthisislove
“She’s crazy,” I say dazedly. “She’s crazy and I love her.”
Loren laughs. “I’ll tell her you said so.”
“I’ll tell her,” I say adamantly. I’d tell my sister that I love her a thousand times over. Before she made my love known to the world. And definitely after.
62
ROSE COBALT
My mother air-kisses both of my cheeks the minute I step into the sunroom, something I’ve never seen her do. If this is her turning over a new leaf, I’ll accept it.
“Hello, birthday girl,” my mother says in a high-pitched voice, patting my daughter’s head. I have a hard time picturing my mother acting this way with her own infant children, but maybe her grandkids are different. She feels more obligated to be overly sweet and less disciplinary. Then again, she wasn’t this way with Poppy’s daughter, so time could’ve been a factor too.
I adjust Jane in my arms, and she babbles back to her grandmother, the only recognizable word is hi! and blue.
I don’t know how “blue” ended up in her tiny vocabulary, but I don’t question it that often. “Is that your favorite color now, Jane?” I ask her in my usual voice.
Jane just smiles as though the world has turned blue for her.
It’s not blue. In fact, it’s pink.
Pink pastries, pink roses, a pastel pink tablecloth. I set Jane on her feet and hold her hand while she curiously inspects the tablecloth, her stuffed lion in her clutch.
“This is pretty,” I tell my mother, gesturing to the table setup. Morning sunlight streams through the windowpanes, and the fans spin languidly overhead. It’s not too much at all. I thought she would’ve hired a string quartet and constructed a tea party outside.