Page 17 of The Someday Daughter
What’s happening on the hotel rooftop honestly looks like some kind of cult. The mornings in Santa Fe are clear and crisp, 0 percent humidity and not too hot while the sun’s still low in the sky. We’re staying in a hotel right on the plaza and Camilla has the entire rooftop rented out—between potted cacti in tiled planters and pergolas webbed with string lights, the space is absolutely crawling with Saint-branded paraphernalia.
Lilac yoga mats spaced at perfectly even intervals. Foam blocks set just so at the top of each mat. Rolled towels and crystal-at-the-bottom water bottles in every mat’s upper right corner.
I am, intentionally, the last one to arrive. Sadie and the interns have claimed all the mats in the second of two rows, which leaves my mother and Magnolia at the front—and the only available mat is the one right next to Camilla. She waves me over and I quickly count off four fingers before crossing the terrace.
“Morning, honey!” she calls, light and breezy as a song. “Saved you the best seat in the house.”
I force a smile as Mick says, “I think Puddles has the best seat.”
She’s curled into a round, fuzzy dog bed at the edge of the terrace—completely shaded and already snoring. Beyond her, New Mexico spreads hilly and red under a spotless blue sky.
“How’d you land on the name?” Mags asks. I look over at her as I lower myself onto my mat. She’s wearing Saint gear from head to toe and has her meticulously highlighted hair swept into a ponytail. “It suits her.”
“Sheiskind of melty,” Cleo says, pulling at her cheeks to mimic Puddles’s bountiful wrinkles. “She came with it, right, Si?”
Silas has his legs stretched out in front of him, big hands wrapped around his feet. He’s wearing gym shorts and a fadedAmerican University Film & MediaT-shirt, that sameGG’s Gardensharebaseball cap.
“She did,” he says, eyes on Puddles. “How could I change it? Look her at face.”
“One big puddle,” Cleo agrees. “It’s apt.”
“Speaking of apt names,” Mick says, and Cleo groans so loudly Puddles cracks an eye open.
“Don’t start, Mick.” Cleo tips her whole head back. “Weknow.”
“Audrey doesn’t,” Mick says defensively, gesturing at me. “Neither do Ms. St. Vrain and Magnolia.”
“Mick’s last name is Selinofoto—” Silas starts, and Mick shoves him in the shoulder.
“Steal my thunder!”
“—which means ‘moonlight.’”
Mick grins wide as the horizon, raising his eyebrows at me. “Huh?” He gestures broadly with both arms. “Not bad, right?”
“I’m truly stunned this hasn’t already come up,” Cleo says,adjusting her neon-yellow headband. “It’s the first thing he tells any attractive person. Ever. Every time.”
Mick and I flush in unison, and I get busy unrolling my yoga towel. For what, I don’t know. What are yoga towels supposed to be used for?
“Audreymeans ‘noble strength,’” Camilla says, and I stop towel-fluffing to look up at her. She’s sitting cross-legged on the center of her mat, her shoulders set straight. I can see the freckles on them from here, mirrors of my own. “Apt, too, I think.”
The smile she gives me is small and quiet. It feels distinctly like an olive branch, though I have no idea what I’m supposed to take away from her pronouncing my noble strength in front of the whole group. She saw my strength fail, and she covered it up, and she covered it up again during the show in San Francisco. She opens her mouth to say something else, but Silas beats her to it.
“My mom chose my name for its meaning, too.” Sadie is watching him, her expression a mix of sympathy and pride. I think of what he said at LAX—Sadie’s my bonus mom—and the way Dr. Osman talked about him, like he was Sadie’s own kid. “It means ‘forest.’”
“I didn’t know that,” Cleo says, extending an arm to brush his knee with her fingers. They smile at each other, something so intimate passing between them that I have to look away. “Mine’s short for Clementine, but I’m pretty sure my parents just like the fruit.”
“Oh, I love clementines,” Magnolia says, the answer to a question I’m sure everyone was dying to ask. “So much more accessible than an orange.”
“So much more accessible,” my mother agrees, in a tone thatmeanswe’re going to move on now. “Is everyone ready to breathe into their body?”
I hear Cleo’s whispered voice, watch her shadow move into Silas’s on the pale stone terrace. “So much more accessible,” she says, but if Silas laughs, I don’t hear it.
“Let’s close our eyes,” my mother says, and as everyone else follows her command I leave mine open. When Silas rests his palms on his knees, Puddles waddles out of her bed and moseys up to the front of his mat, helping herself to the foam block and propping her chin on it like it’s a pillow. She collapses to the ground with a grunt, and Silas opens his eyes. He smiles down at her and then, like he can feel me watching, looks up at me.
“Breathe in through your nose,” Camilla says, and we keep looking at each other. “Out through your mouth.”
Silas smiles. It’s crooked and goofy, everything about him like a gasket that fits just a little too loose.
