Page 78 of Sunshine
When he’s done, he sets the linens aside and wraps us both up in the blanket, two caterpillars in one cocoon, and though there’s a lot we could talk about, we lay in silence, soaking up the few minutes more we have together before we start all over again tomorrow, pretending that we aren’t sneaking around behind everyone’s back. That I’m just the nanny and he’s just my best friend’s brother.
Pretending that I’m not wishing he’d ask me to stay. That I’m not tragically, ruinously, and heartbreakingly in love with him.
twenty-three
Dylan
Izzy’s Family Games Night-turned-Izzy’sLiving Room Spectacular takes place in front of the wide crackling fireplace in the Davenport living room. Like a true star, she keeps us waiting for fifteen minutes past the designated start time, the entire family squished onto sofas and armchairs rearranged to face the makeshift stage, flicking through the programs that Poppy designed, printed, and photocopied for the occasion, eyes darting toward the stairs every few minutes as we wait for Isobel Jacqueline Davenport to make her entrance.
“I’m so excited,” Violet, my brother’s girlfriend, whispers beside me. And though it’s not in her nature to be sarcastic, I glance at her to check she’s not pulling my leg. She’s not. A flush of anticipation paints her cheekbones, and she sticks her nose in the program again like she’s about to witness a world-class opera and not my little girl’s thirty-minute one-woman show. “I’ve missed Izzy these last few months. I can’t wait to see what she can do.”
On Violet’s other side, Chord scowls to hide the fact he wants to smile like it’s a secret my hockey-legend big brother is smittenwith the woman who used to be his personal assistant. He sets a hand on her knee, and though Violet’s wide eyes remain on the page in front of her, her cheeks bloom brighter.
“Thanks, Vi,” I tell her. “I appreciate you guys driving in from San Francisco for this, and so does Izzy. She’s pumped to have all her family here for this.”
“Oh, it’s our pleasure. And thank you for inviting my dad too.” Violet nods where her father, Luke, is chatting with Charlie and Daisy on the other side of the room. “He’s so happy here at Silver Leaf, and we both appreciate you including him on nights like this.”
When Violet moved onto the ranch last summer to be Chord’s live-in assistant, she worried about her dad living alone in their city apartment because he struggled with depression. But then Chord found out, so he drove back to San Francisco, told Luke he was moving onto the ranch to be closer to his daughter, then set him up with a job so he could stay on even after Violet moved out to live with Chord in the city. He’s a good guy. Hardworking, easy-going, and always makes time for Izzy when she’s flitting around the ranch with Poppy or Daisy.
“Always happy to have Luke around,” I say. “We like him, so it isn’t hard.”
Violet smiles. “That’s very kind.”
“We wouldn’t have missed tonight for the world,” Chord adds. “Plus, I’ve got a trunk load of presents for her. She told me she needs more stuffies.”
Chord snorts at my horror, and I drag a hand down my face with an exhausted groan, thinking about the overloaded style of Izzy’s bedroom. I can barely walk in there without tripping over a fucking stuffed toy. “Come on, bro. She doesn’t need more shit—”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Poppy announces from the bottom of the stairs. “Please take your seats. The show is about to start.”
It’s not often Poppy enters a room without me noticing these days, so the effect of her appearing when I’m not expecting it kicks my heart right up into my throat. In her torn blue jeans and white ankle boots, red-blonde crown of braids and cherry-painted lips, and a knitted yellow sweater that somehow manages to swamp her curvesandcling to them at the same time, she does more to warm this room than the blaze burning in the hearth.
Poppy is careful not to let her gaze linger on me as she crosses the room to take a seat wedged between Daisy and Charlie, but I don’t miss the sultry tilt to her mouth—or the faint weariness around her eyes. We spend more nights out of our own beds than in them, but whenever I think about my five a.m. wake-up calls, the old exhaustion doesn’t last long. I don’t need more sleep. I need more Poppy.
Izzy descends the stairs with the kind of confidence I wish she had always, her plump cheeks rosy and her smile excited, wearing her favorite pink tutu, her new brown cowboy boots, a denim shirt, and the cat’s-ears headband Poppy bought her weeks ago. Beside her is Ethan, a shy blond boy with dimples and a lilting Irish accent, who Izzy tells us is her new best friend. Izzy leads him to stand in front of the fire as we welcome them with raucous applause.
For the first item, Izzy pulls out her trumpet while Ethan and hulking Uncle Finn back her up on their six-strings. As Izzy squeaks and squeals her way to the end of a never-ending three-song set, I throw out a round of silent thankyous for every tortured wince that somehow morphed into a rapturous smile.
Izzy shows off her new soccer skills next. Ethan blocks a plastic goal on the far side of the room as Izzy dribbles her miniature ball around the furniture, kicking at the net until she finally scores. This is followed by a Spanish poem that she recites from memory, and Ethan translates in live time beside her. And asIzzy gives us an earnest interpretation of every ballet move she knows so far, Ethan reads in a quiet voice from a piece of paper that names and explains everyplie,jetes,sautés, andchasse.
My family and friends are freaking saints for the full twenty-six minutes, responding withoohsandaahsin all the right places, holding up their phones to record every moment, clapping and whooping at the end of each demonstration like they’re at one of Chord’s hockey games instead of our drab old living room.
Until finally, the kids dash into the kitchen with Poppy hot on their heels, the three of them reappearing with plates of the no-bake chocolate squares Izzy and I whipped up as her grand finale. As they circle the room to offer everyone a piece, Poppy clucks like a proud mother hen to make sure everyone knows that the wonky, glossy blue-and-yellow plates that Izzy and Ethan balance on their careful upturned palms are products of Izzy’s ceramics class.
It’s hard to take my eyes off Poppy as she shepherds the kids from person to person, gently encouraging Izzy to explain how she made the plates and the dessert and resting a reassuring hand on Ethan’s slender shoulder so he doesn’t feel uncomfortable or alone. She’s bubbly and friendly, leaving everyone with a smile as she bounces from conversation to conversation.
And I don’t know why it’sthismoment that hits me harder than the hundreds of others that have occurred over the last six weeks, but I suddenly can’t breathe. All I want to do is close the distance between us, gather her in my arms, and kiss her stupid so the whole world knows what she means to me.
About half an hour after the show ends while we’re all licking melted chocolate off our fingers, Ethan’s mom arrives to collect him. I’m making parental-brand small talk as everyone moves into the kitchen for coffee, leaving the living room empty. Or soI assume, until I wave at Ethan’s car as it disappears down the driveway, close the front door, and turn around.
The fire has died a little, someone has turned down the lights, and Poppy sits with her back to me on the edge of the sofa, tucking Izzy into a makeshift bed. There’s a cushion under her head and a knitted blanket tucked up under her chin; her cowboy boots and tutu are tossed onto the floor, and her bunny is secure under one arm. The picture is so perfect that I move back into the hallway so I can watch without being seen.
“You did so well tonight,” Poppy murmurs. Her gentle hand brushes the hair back from Izzy’s forehead, and the maternal touch has Izzy’s eyes drooping closed. “Your daddy and I are so proud of you.”
The way she says it like she and I aresomething—a team—cuts behind my ribs, and my mouth turns dry.
“Poppy?” Izzy mumbles, her voice soft with sleep.
“Yes, Little Bee?”
