Page 25 of Star-Crossed
Vee held open the wood gate as Lyra did her best to summon a genuine smile. She’d been looking forward to one of their acerbic political bitch-fests wherein they solved the world’s problems over crepes and always came to the same conclusion.
That women should rule the world.
“Tell me I didn’t miss the memo that this was a potluck,” she lamented. “Am I late?”
“Oh tosh,” Vee said, snatching the wine bottle from her and gliding back up the cobbled walk like a carrot-colored silk flag flapping in the slight breeze. “We do some sort of open-carousel brunch once monthly, you know, for our nearest and dearest to wander in and out, chat, eat, drink, rest, play, and, my favorite”—she leaned in with her hand to the side of her mouth— “indulge in a bit of gossip.”
“I think you invited the wrong twin.” Lyra laughed. “Gossip is Gemma’s department.” Mostly because law school made Lyra feel like everything anyone told her came with an implied NDA.
“Oh, she was invited, but she mentioned she had to do inventory at Bazaar Girls today.”
If inventory was a code word for Gabe, then sure. Gemma was “doing inventory.”
As Lyra followed Vee into the house, she was greeted by the cheerful chaos of dozens of people laughing, chatting, and helping themselves to a veritable feast. The smell of sizzling bacon and warm maple syrup filled the air, and the kitchen counters overflowed with towers of fluffy pancakes, platters of scrambled eggs, and bowls of fresh fruit.
Myrtle, Vee’s wife, was clad in overalls and an equally retina-piercing yellow shirt. She bustled about with her enviable stores of energy, cracking jokes left and right while expertly flipping pancakes on a long griddle.
“Maybe Caryn would like to help us drink this,” Lyra mentioned, handing over the champagne to Vee. She watched in quiet horror as the cork was popped and it was unceremoniously dumped into a pitcher of orange juice, creating an extravagant, hundred-dollar mimosa.
“Lyra, darling, grab yourself a plate and dig in!” Myrtle said, her laughter ringing through the kitchen. “We’ve got enough food to feed an army of powerlifters.”
“Thanks, Myrtle,” Lyra replied with a tight smile. Internally, she chastised herself for not anticipating this kind of gathering. She knew that Vee and Myrtle were beloved pillars of the community and loved nothing more than bringing people together.
Lyra scanned the crowd, a knot of anticipation forming in her stomach. A couple of middle-aged men were flipping through Myrtle’s collection of vinyl records, arguing over whether to play Pink Floyd or Janis Joplin. A few familiar faces from town were perusing Vee’s collection of vintage erotica.
A handful of preteens lurked nearby, hoping to catch an eyeful when the grownups weren’t looking.
Kids darted in and out of the house like cats, probably looking for the distinct pleasure of tripping someone laden with a plateful of food.
Just as she was becoming overwhelmed, Lyra spotted Marty Forrester, Cy’s father, building a stack of pancakes that rivaled the Leaning Tower of Pisa. His booming laugh carried over the chatter of guests as he passed the plate off to a skinny, towheaded waif with huge, hungry eyes.
From what Lyra remembered, Marty and his late wife had been fostering children since the eighties. They’d only had only two biological children—Cy and his older sister Kiki, but Townsend Harbor boasted a veritable platoon of Forresters under forty of almost every age, race, sex, and creed.
Currently there were fourteen souls in this house calling Marty “Dad,” but—Lyra scanned the entire vicinity, including what she could see out the window—Cy did not seem to be among them.
Her shoulders slumped, but she couldn’t tell if it was from relief or disappointment.
It was only a kiss.
Okay, the train had begun to chug toward Pound Town, but thanks to Larry, they’d not made it out of the station.
Nor had they made any promises or plans to see each other again.
Still… She couldn’t deny the flutter of moth wings in her long-dormant womb at the very thought of him.
Christ, she must be ovulating.
It wasn’t as if he’d ghosted her. Quite the opposite. A text from Cy had arrived the morning after the Larry debacle. Lyra had stared at the casual message for a long moment, searching for subtext and finding nothing.
Cy:Tree permit is stalled in the city. Looks like it’ll be a few days. Gemma said she’d see what she could do. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.
She had debated how to respond, if at all. In the end, she’d settled on something equally casual and noncommittal.
Lyra:No worries. Talk to you soon.
His reply had come quickly.
Cy:Sounds good. Enjoy the weekend.
