TWENTY-ONE
DAIRE
When the doorbell rings, I instinctively shout for Axel to get it. Remembering too late he’s not home.
I wipe my hands on the front of my cutoffs and head down the ramp. Only to find Jennika struggling to squeeze through the door.
“Mom? What are you doing here?” I rush to help. As equally excited to see her as I am flustered by her ability to continually surprise me with her unannounced, ambush-style visits.
“Told you I’d bring the dresses,” she says. The words muffled by the three puffy garment bags piled so high in her arms they cover most of her face.
“You told me you’d send the dresses.” I help her unload them onto the couch before moving in for a hug.
“Send—bring—what’s the difference?” She grins. “The point is, they’re here. And just in time, I might add. Which wasn’t easy—traffic was insane.”
“You drove?”
“All the way from the Albuquerque airport. Now, let me get a look at you. It’s been too long since my eyes enjoyed a Daire-sized feast.” She draws away, holding me at arm’s length to better inspect me.
“And to think it feels like just yesterday when we Skyped,” I quip, trying not to cringe under the glare of her probing assessment.
“You look tired.” She states the words with the same finality as a judge reading a verdict.
“Nothing a little concealer can’t fix.” I move to untangle myself from her grip, but she tips her finger to my chin and holds me in place.
“Not what I meant. You’re as beautiful as ever, and your skin looks amazing. I’m glad to see you’re heeding my warnings and wearing your sunscreen. But, behind your eyes, I sense the fatigue of someone with several decades on you. What’s going on, Daire? I thought you said all was quiet on the Richter front?”
This time I succeed in pulling away, and I use the moment to steal a quick peek at her ring finger. Relieved to confirm she’s still engaged.
Jennika has a habit of bolting from anything that hints of commitment. And for the last nine months since I moved to Enchantment, Paloma’s adobe has served as her go-to place whenever things get too heated with her fiancé.
“How’s Harlan?” I ask, just to confirm they’re still on.
“Good.” She grins, shoots a hand through hair that’s dyed a pretty, soft blonde with bits of buttery yellow streaking through. Though there’s no telling how long this look will last. Jennika changes her hair color as often as most people change sheets. “He would’ve come, but he’s on location doing an editorial shoot in Goa.”
“Rough life.” I crack a smile, but it fails to convince.
“Not nearly as rough as yours.” She folds her thin arms across her chest and continues her inventory. Noting bare feet with toes polished a bright turquoise blue, worn denim cutoffs, a white tank top, and hair swept back into a messy ponytail. Not a whole lot to see, and certainly nothing alarming, still she sees fit to say, “Daire, I’m concerned.”
“Don’t be. I’m fine.” I turn on my heel and make for the kitchen. Thanks to Axel the house is more or less tidy and the fridge is actually full. Last thing I need is for Jennika to see just how chaotic my life has become. Though judging by the look she shoots me when I offer her a cool drink, she’s not fooled.
“How long are you staying?” I ask, noting she didn’t arrive with any bags. Then again, for all I know her entire stash of worldly belongings is crammed into the trunk of her rental car.
“Haven’t decided.” She places a hand on her hip and surveys the room. “Guess that depends on you.” She shifts her focus to me, and I can’t help but flinch under such intense scrutiny.
I can slay demons, stand up to the evilest of Richters, and yet, one knowing look from my mom and I’m coming apart.
Last January, when we said goodbye, it was with the firm understanding that I’d keep in touch, keep her informed, and she’d leave me to do what I must. While she may not like my being a Seeker, she seemed to accept it as something she could neither interfere with nor change. But now, despite keeping to my end of the deal, she latches onto the flimsiest excuse she can find to show up at the absolute, worst possible time.
She settles herself at the kitchen table, takes a sip of iced tea, and levels her gaze right on me. “How’s Dace?”
On the surface, the question is simple, straightforward, packed with no apparent agenda. And yet, it’s pretty much the worst thing she could’ve asked. Dace has become such a hot-button topic, even my friends have stopped referring to him.
Though that’s not to say I don’t think about him.
Because I do.
Nearly every second of every day.