Page 48 of Karma's Kiss

“Queenie, these cookies were supposed to say, ‘Cruz is 1!’ But instead they say ‘Happy Birthday Cruz’…can you believe that?! I’m going to call Camille down at the bakery right now and—”

There’s an audible shuffling; I think Queenie’s wrestled the phone out of her hand. “Now listen, that sounds like a real problem, but let’s call Camille later. How about we focus on the party favors?”

I can’t go into the lion’s den; I have an important job of my own right now: converting David to my side.

I bend down near the cooler he’s filling with beers and lower my voice. “Listen, I’ll help you ice these down so long as you’re willing to never talk to Sawyer Garnett ever again.”

He gives me a curious look and yanks the box out of my grasp. “What the hell happened with you two? I saw him last night and he was mad as hell. Barely said two words to the group the entire time we were with him and then he left early. I doubt he’ll be in a better mood this afternoon.”

This afternoon?

“He’s coming?!” I slam the lid of the cooler closed in my outrage.

David pries it open again. “Of course he’s coming. He’s practically Cruz’s uncle.”

“PracticallyCruz’s uncle? Well I’m hisactualaunt! That should count for something, and I’m hereby disinviting him.” I hold out my hand. “Give me your phone and I’ll text him right now.”

“No can do. He’s picking up the barbecue from Doc’s and he’ll be here any minute.” He shoves a few empty beer cartons into my hands. “Recycle those for me, will you?”

I head into the kitchen with the flattened cardboard—not because I’m giving up on my argument with David but becauseI need to retreat and regroup—but when I’m at the doorway, Queenie catches my gaze, widens her eyes, and slashes her hand across her throat. The sentiment is clear:Do not come in here! Save yourself!

I should slink off in the other direction. Lindsey’s worrying that the party favor bags aren’t the right shade of red. “These are ruby red and I wanted them to be scarlet.”

She sounds close to hysterics. This is perfect for me; I can use this.

“How’s everything in here?” I singsong with an upbeat smile.

“Just fine—” Queenie reassures me at the same time that Lindsey replies, “Horrible!”

Queenie tosses up her hands and leaves us in the kitchen, mumbling about going out for a cigarette. (Queenie’s never smoked a day in her life.)

I slink in and take my spot near Lindsey, delivering sympathetic nods and a perfectly timed “You’re kidding me” while she drones on about the bags for the next ten minutes. To be perfectly honest, I work in the wedding industry—where specific shades and color families matter a lot—and even I can’t tell the difference between the color red she was hoping for and the color red she got.

The first breath she takes, I strike.

“Lindsey, I can tell how much effort you’ve put into this party.” This isn’t even a lie. My hands still ache from tying off balloons last night. Lindsey barely let us take bathroom breaks. “You want everything to be perfect for Cruz’s birthday, don’t you?”

Her eyes widen with worry. “I know I’m being crazy. It’s just all my mom friends go all out and you should have seen the party Mary Beth threw for Evelyn last month. There was a petting zooanda snow cone truck! The kids left with custom Evelyn swag.”

“Yeah well, Mary Beth is a materialistic buffoon if you ask me. She was always like that, even back in school—” I realize I’ve deviated from my plan and quickly reroute. “But wow that party does sound special. Bet Cruz loved it. Now, your party is well on its way to being just as great, something the kids and parents will be talking about for years to come.” I wince as I continue, “There’s just one itty-bitty problem.”

Her hands reach out to grip my biceps and she shakes me a little in panic. “WHAT? Did David not get enough beer? I told him to get a few dozen cases!”

I grab her arms, holding her steady. “No. The beer is taken care of. I just think we might need to take another look at the guest list.”

Her face betrays her confusion. I’m sure she’s invited all of Cruz’s little baby friends and their moms, her side of the family, and ours.

“Sawyer,” I mouth, trying to keep this conversation on the quiet side. If David hears, he’ll try to intervene.

Her brows furrow. “What about Sawyer? He’s getting the barbecue.”

“Ican get the barbecue. That’s no problem. I just think…is Sawyer really someone we can trust? What with his dangerous past?”

She rears back in shock, and I realize I’ve accidentally laid it on too strong. I’ve made it seem like Sawyer’s a criminal.

“I mean can he really get the barbecue on time? He’s always running late.”

I’ve completely made this up. For all I know, Sawyer’s the timeliest person we know, but my seed of doubt has its intended effect. She’s chewing on her bottom lip, moments from calling Sawyer and kicking him off the guest list, but then Cruz comes barreling into the kitchen wailing.

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