20
(Cara)
There aren’t many things I’ve longed for since leaving Chicago for Hotchkiss. Not my king bed or the Japanese soaker tub in my master bathroom. Not the Pilates studio down the street from my condo or my favorite brunch place, where they serve salted caramel brioche French toast and sriracha-infused Bloody Marys.
But this, I missed. Somehow—I’m sure Garrett bears some responsibility here—I’d forgotten its powers. The way it can right your bad day or soothe your frazzled nerves.
The mani-pedi.
I bite back a moan when the spa technician’s hands make their way up from my heel, pause to knead the oddly tense back of my ankle, then move up along my calf muscles. I’ve already luxuriated my way through a ninety-minute aromatherapy massage and hydrating herbal wrap, and a Colorado arid climate reparative facial, and had all the parts of me that required it waxed smooth. Now this. My eyes fall closed, relishing in the wafting scent of lavender essential oils from the foot bath.
“OK, Cara Jane.” Amie plops, somehow elegantly, into the treatment chair next to mine. “During my massage, I was thinking.”
“You’re not supposed to think during a massage. It’s against the rules,” I say, voice monotone.
“Rules, schmules. But first, pick one for me, please.”
The click of nail polish bottles draws my eyes open. Amie has two bottles clasped in each hand. In her right, two shades of pink, nearly identical, save for the hint of pearl in one. In her left, a bottle of midnight blue and one of cherry red. We both know pink is her usual choice, but I note how her left hand seems extended a bit farther.
“The blue one. It’s edgy without looking like you might have a Joy Division tattoo somewhere on your body. Mom will hate it.”
Amie snorts and passes the bottle to her technician with a thank-you. She adjusts herself into the spa chair, wiggles her shoulders around and then re-knots the sash on her fluffy robe with a rather rough yank. Just like she always does.
I would know. At home we have a standing twice-a-month date at our favorite spa. Where we indulge in our love of mani-pedis, get our eyebrows threaded, and sometimes enjoy the occasional massage. So on top of the indulgence and pampering, I miss this, too. A few hours with my sister, who knows what I look like when I ugly cry, laugh until I cry, and cry without shedding a tear. Because sometimes it’s more than enough to feel known by another person, in ways you could never explain.
Amie completes her nesting ritual and takes a sip of the champagne from the glass sitting next to her. “Anyways. I was thinking that you should invite Garrett to dinner tomorrow night.”
My gaze kicks up to the ceiling. “What?”
“You should invite Garrett to dinner.”
I tip my head her way, expecting to see some evidence she’s joking. She isn’t.
“Are you serious? Invite Garrett. To Apogée. With our mother.” After saying it out loud, I try to picture it. I do, and it’s only a snapshot, but that’s enough. It’s bad.
Amie’s voice holds none of the alarm mine did. “Of course. Don’t you miss him? Wouldn’t it be fun to spend your birthday eve night with him? In your suite?”
My body answers before I can. Mostly by way of weird, breathy, half-obscene sounds that emerge when I think about Garrett spending the night in my hotel suite. The two of us in the big bed with the soft sheets. The two of us in the big bathtub with the wood-burning fireplace in front of it. Oh God. I bet Garrett can build the best fire. He probably doesn’t even need matches.
Despite liking that picture way too much, I still know it’s a bad idea. I try and think of a sound, specific reason that will smother out my hormones enough to abandon this ill-advised scheme.
Suddenly, a singular, unmistakably cultured voice cuts through all the clamoring in my mind.
“Cara, I bought you a dress at Burberry while I was out. They’re tailoring it to bring in the bustline so it won’t look deflated on you. I’ll have the concierge pick it up in the morning and send it up to your room after they do. It will be just right for dinner tomorrow night.”
And there’s my reason. My mother. Standing there in full make-up, every curl of hair still in place despite having just emerged from her own deep-tissue massage. Even in a spa robe, her trademark poise remains unmussed.
I avoid an adolescent sigh by focusing on my toes, where a coat of bright violet nail polish is being applied, muttering an obligatory thank-you.
“Cara’s inviting one of her Hotchkiss friends to dinner tomorrow night, Mom,” my traitorous sister chirps. “We need to let the restaurant know we’re six instead of five now.”
My head jerks up and I hiss in her direction. “Amie!”
Mom runs her hands over the front of her robe, smoothing away nonexistent wrinkles. “Of course. Does she have any dietary restrictions? I’d planned on the chef’s tasting menu for all of us.”
“He,” Amy offers.
My mother’s hands freeze. Her eyes rise up and meet mine. “He?”
I take a labored swallow, reminding myself that this is my twenty-eighth birthday. I’m certainly old enough now to invite a man to dinner if I feel like it, without offering an explanation. Even to my mother.
What’s done is done, then. Might as well go with it.
“Garrett. And no restrictions that I know of. He eats just about anything.”
Her eyes narrow at the familiarity implied by my last sentence. She cinches the sash on her robe tighter around her waist and replies flatly, “He eats just about anything. How lovely.”
When she turns on a heel and clears the room en route to her facial, I pick up a particularly fat issue of Architectural Digest magazine off the side table between us and whack Amie’s arm with it. She doesn’t even flinch, merely giggles and tugs on her diamond-stud-wearing earlobes.
I let the magazine hit the table with a flat thud, then down what remains in the champagne flute sitting next to me before emptying hers, too—hoping it comes off as dramatic as it was intended. Another laugh from Amie.
Only one thing to do now. I grab my phone and fire off a text.
Feel like taking a drive to Aspen?