Nikki’s mouth wobbles and she sniffs. At least the China-doll smiles are gone.

  “Your mom died?” Ricki’s eyes have welled up with tears.

  I nod. “I’m an old lady, so I know it’s not the same, but last year, my mom suffered a stroke, and she didn’t recover. She had another one a few days later, and she slipped into a coma.”

  Ricki rushes at me, and I’m worried she’s going to hit me.

  But she hugs me instead.

  “Oh.” Now I’m crying, too.

  “I’m sorry.” Nikki’s kicking at the floor, at nothing on the floor, as far as I can tell. But when she glances up, she’s crying too.

  “It’s alright,” I say. “It still hurts, more some days than others, and you may see me crying sometimes, but it gets a little bit easier every week.”

  Ricki’s holding me so tightly that I worry about the circulation in my legs a little.

  “We do like Chinese food,” Nikki says quietly. “And we like Italian, too.”

  “Maybe we can get Chinese tonight.” Ricki finally releases me. “Beef and broccoli is my favorite, and Nikki likes orange chicken, as long as it’s not too spicy.”

  “What about egg rolls?” I ask. “Because if you don’t like sweet and sour sauce, I may have to rethink having you living here with me. You might be aliens in human suits.”

  They both laugh. And as we sit and eat Chinese food together, neither of them talk about the tree, or Christmas, or their mom, but they do smile. And they do talk about school a little, and they tell me about a tennis match where they destroyed the two girls who were supposed to win the whole tournament.

  It’s a start.

  Which is better than the slamming door I faced earlier.

  It’s a little surprising to me that our start came after I snapped at them, but I think it’s because I was real. Whatever else we feel as humans, we can sense true authenticity. We can tell when someone’s being honest. It’s hard for us not to respond to that, at least in some way.

  So when Nikki and Ricki have finished their homework, and they have both showered, and they’re ready for bed, I try to prepare them for tomorrow.

  “I have a weird job,” I say. “Especially around Christmas, it means I have to attend a lot of client parties.”

  “Oh.” Nikki frowns. “I don’t want to go.”

  “You don’t have to,” I say. “My best friend—you guys can call her Aunt if you want—Seren’s coming over to be with you. She’ll make dinner and dessert—she’s an actual chef, so believe me when I say you’re in for a treat.”

  “So you’re going alone?” Ricki asks. “Doesn’t your husband work with you?”

  I wasn’t sure whether she’d remember that. I cringe a little. “He will be there, and he’s not super nice to me.”

  “I hate him,” Nikki says. “Maybe I can go. They can’t get mad at a little kid for punching him in the nose, but I hit really hard.”

  “She hit someone with a racket once, and she broke their nose,” Ricki says.

  “It was an accident.” Nikki looks nervous.

  “No one needs to punch him,” I say. “Although, the guy who’s going with me tomorrow did offer.”

  “Is it the hot guy who brought the pizza?”

  They think Bentley’s hot? “He’s forty,” I say. “He’s not hot.”

  “He is hot.” Nikki nods. “I mean, I would never date him, but you totally should.”

  “It’s because he’s so hot that I can’t,” I say. “My husband was already too good-looking for me. I always felt bad around him.”

  “That’s because he was a bas⁠—”

  “Oops,” I say. “We don’t use bad language around here.”

  Nikki arches one eyebrow like I’m an idiot.

  Ricki glances at her sister. “You know that everyone at school says swear words all day long, right?”

  “Everyone at school may do that,” I say. “But swear words can make people feel unsafe, and with my mother gone, I need this to be a safe place.” I realize as I say it that it’s actually true. “I won’t use bad language with you, and you do the same for me, okay?”

  Both of them nod.

  Which is way better than a few hours ago.

  “And look, I’m going with Bentley as a friend, okay?”

  “You’re kinda dumb.” But Nikki’s smiling as she disappears into her room this time.

  “She’s right.” Ricki slows down and stops in the doorway. “But, like, thanks for dinner and stuff.” She offers me a half-smile, and it feels like a huge win.

  All day the next day, I think about ways I could get out of today’s holiday party. It feels like I made a little progress with the girls, and I’m worried it’ll be like a turtle hearing a loud noise if I’m not around tonight. They’ll duck back in their shells and disappear as soon as I let them.

  But Jennifer stops by near the end of the day. She glances at my gold dress, hanging on the edge of my window. “You’re ready. Good.”

  “You’re coming?”

  She shakes her head. “No, not tonight. Kristy and I are actually going to be at the Goldstone party. You’re going with James, and he’s going to talk to Quintano about the charges they brought yesterday against Mr. Clark—we want to handle the PR for that case—and you’re just supposed to make sure we have a presence for our marketing side. Should be an easy night.” She narrows her eyes. “Don’t cut out early.”

  “I won’t,” I say.

  So far, she’s pretended like she didn’t threaten to fire me, and she’s acted like I never said I’d quit. I suppose that’s about as good as I can expect. She watches me for a beat or two, and I wonder whether she’s going to say something, but she just nods and walks away.

  I review the proposal Chump Change has put together for the girls, and I wonder what to do about it. I’m not sure what I can do about it. It’s not like they covered this in the training—what to do when you’re offering money to your foster kid?

  I pick up the phone and call Alice.

  “Hello?”

  “I have a weird question.”

  “That’s not a surprise.” She snorts. “If I had a dime for every weird question foster parents called me with. . .”

  “You’re chipper.”

  “You haven’t called to get rid of them or report that they’ve attacked you.”

  “Does that happen a lot?”

  “More often than you’d imagine.”

  “Well, not with these girls. They’re hurting,” I say.

  “They lost their mother and managed to hide it,” Alice says. “Did you know that they forged their mother’s name on all of the important documents for months now, doing it all under cover of her being under quarantine for being sick?”

  “Where’s their grandma?”

  “She’s been dead for eight years. It was a pretty resourceful move.”

  And it’s thoroughly depressing. “Well, look, the reason I was there⁠—”

  “They’re a client of yours. You said.” She grunts. “You’re wondering whether they can work for you, now that you’re also their guardian.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I mean, it’s not like, a big moral quandary. They’ve got a super cute Insta account, and they post about their tennis matches and little pranks they play.”

  “Okay.”

  “They’ve been doing things for our clients for almost twenty months now.”

  “Then why is this even a question?”

  “One of our clients wants them to do a commercial,” I say. “It’s more money, and I think they’ll want to do it, and it’s not a dicey commercial. They’d play tennis, maybe sing a jingle or something, and promote gum.”

  “Okay.”

  “But can I be the one who makes that decision for them, since I’m also the one who’s offering them the job?”

  “Do you get money from the client for them doing their work?”

  “Personally? No. I mean, my company does, and I’m employed by them.”

  “But you’re not paid differently, whether they take the job or not?”

  “No.”

  “And you think they’ll want to do it.”

  “I do.”

  “Then ask them. But make sure that you put their best interests first.”

  “You don’t think it’ll make it less likely that. . .” I feel stupid asking whether it could jeopardize them staying with me. It feels greedy, like I don’t want to let them go.

  “You want to keep them,” she says. “And you want to make sure a judge couldn’t use this to deny your request for custody.”

  “Is that dumb?” I gulp.

  “Generally speaking, Barbara, judges and social workers, we’re looking for reasons to keep kids in good homes. So unless their dad shows up, or unless their mom isn’t really dead, or unless you’re secretly some kind of criminal, you’re kind of a lock.”

  I breathe a little easier, knowing I can talk to them about the commercial without worrying that I will need to tell them that they shouldn’t do it.

  And now it’s time to get ready to prance around and smile and act like I’m exactly where I want to be. When I’m changing in the bathroom, I realize that I forgot my girdle at home. It’s fine, but it makes it hard to zip up this dress past my waist, and there’s a definite bulge in my middle that I really wish wasn’t there.

  No matter which way I turn, and no matter how hard I suck in, it’s there.

  I hate this extra weight.

  I know it shouldn’t matter. I know Bentley says it’s fine, but I’m not blind. I can see that I don’t look like I used to, and I promise myself that I’ll try and eat a little better and run a little more. I’m tired of looking in the mirror and seeing someone I don’t even recognize.

  When I pull up at the party, I realize for the first time that it’s outside, at a park. It’s lovely, actually, and they have space heaters all over. I park my car and navigate the snow-cleared walkway as well as I can in heels. I don’t see any super showy sports cars, so I’m pretty sure I beat Bentley here. I contemplate waiting around in the parking lot, but I decide to head for the party. I’m nearly there when Bentley comes jogging up from the other direction.

  “Hey.” He’s breathing heavily.

  “Where did you come from?”

  “My GPS is fired,” he says. “It took me the south route, and then the only parking I could get—never mind.” He shakes his head.

  I step through to the edge of the party, the heat from the braziers placed every 10 feet hitting me like a palpable wall. I close my eyes and sigh as I undo my coat.

  “Wowzer,” Bentley says. “That is a dress.”

  I want to wrap my coat back around myself and pretend I’m freezing cold.

  “What’s wrong?”

  There’s no way he’d be that nice if he didn’t think I needed someone to talk me up. He can clearly see the bulge, and he’s trying to compensate for it. “Nothing.” I force a smile and keep my coat on.

  “Are you cold?” He looks around. “Who thought an outdoor event was a great plan?”

  “That would be me,” Victor Quintano says with a smile.

  “Oh,” Bentley says. “Well, it’s a unique idea.”

  “I feel like we never get any fresh air in the winter, and the facility here assured me that with the tents and the heaters, we’d be fine.” He gestures. “Maybe once you’re under the tents it’ll be better.”

  Now I have to take my coat off. I peel it off slowly, trying not to make it obvious that I’m embarrassed. “I’m actually not cold.”

  Neither of them looks like they believe me, and Quintano’s the one who will decide which PR firm they use.

  “Really,” I say. “It’s just that this dress was a little extra, and I thought the coat might tone it down a bit.”

  Bentley takes the coat with a smile. “I recant my criticism about the venue then, and I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “Of course,” Quintano says. “Our firm has dealt with its fair share of misunderstandings lately.”

  Bentley has no idea what he’s talking about, but he rallies well. “I’m sure we all have.” He offers me his arm. “And I’ll be sure to convince the lady that her extra-dress brings exactly the right amount of holiday cheer.”

  Quintano raises a glass and nods as he walks off.

  “You’re pretty good at that,” I say.

  “After sticking my foot in my mouth,” Bentley says, “I can sometimes extricate it reasonably well.” His eyes are dancing. “Sorry about that. I’m guessing that guy’s important.”

  I drop to a whisper. “He’s the target Jennifer assigned to James for the night.”

  “Oh, well, then I really did foul up.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

  “And what’s your target for the night?”

  “I have to be visible,” I say. “That’s my task.”

  “I think we can do visible.” Bentley eyes my dress. “With that dress on, you’re going to be catching everyone’s eye.”

  I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks. “And now I want my coat back for sure.”

  “Barbara, tell me you’re not still letting that idiot make you feel like you don’t look great.”

  “Stop,” I hiss. “Not right now.”

  “I like you,” he says.

  I freeze.

  “I’ve liked you for a while.” His eyes are intent, and his voice is urgent. “You light up every room you’re in. You champion little kids, even when it means your job’s put in jeopardy. You’re always there for your friends. You’re even there for me, and I’m a total nuisance.” Bentley’s staring right at me, with those big, deep, soul-searching eyes of his. “You’re somehow both an anchor and a shooting star, and I have no idea how you manage both, but I’m always in awe of it. I’m not kidding when I say you look amazing. I spend almost all day every day trying to come up with an excuse to touch you.” He bites his lip then, and my entire stomach flip-flops.

  It’s like a scene in a movie.

  When Cinderella and the prince stare at each other longingly.

  When that girl stands on the pitcher’s mound waiting for the guy to kiss her.

  When the guy comes walking around the corner with his dog, and he tells the girl he’s been the one emailing her all along.

  It’s my moment with Bentley, the one I never thought would happen.

  And then James clears his throat, and I realize he was standing behind me.

  And all of that was just to make him jealous—of course it was. It worked. There’s a muscle popping in his jaw, and he looks like he might actually try to punch Bentley. But the sinking feeling in my heart when I realize Bentley’s just doing his job—it’s like pulling the plug on Times Square. All the lights in my heart and my mind just blink out.

  For the rest of the party, I feel like a wind-up doll, just rocking my way through the motions. I smile. I chat. I talk about how ridiculous the charges against their CFO—who has totally disappeared—must be. I bob my head and smile and talk about how much better they’ll do next year.

  And all the while, I think about how I thought I was having my moment, but really, I’m just becoming more and more delusional. I think that’s my sign. I have got to get out of this deal. The idea was a good one. Shield myself with an old friend so that James can’t mess with my heart.

  The upshot is that James can’t touch me anymore.

  I couldn’t care less whether he flirts with or kisses or pines after Kristy. They could be celebrating the new year on the table in front of me, naked, and I don’t think I would care. But Bentley’s breaking my heart in real time, and I just glued it back together. I can’t take another crushing blow. I just can’t.

  Bentley keeps trying to talk to me—he takes my arm, he bumps my hip, and once, he even slides his hand into mine. Those movements mean nothing to him. Just a friend, doing a solid for another friend. But each time, the stupid little tendrils inside my heart try to sprout a little, and I have to crush them with the heel of my boot.

  Finally, when it’s almost time to go, and he drapes my jacket over my shoulders, I can’t do it anymore. “Bentley, I can’t.” I shake my head. “I can’t come to these parties with you anymore.”

  “What?” He looks panicked for some reason. “Why not?”

  “It’s too awkward.”

  “But what I said earlier,” he says. “I didn’t mean—the thing is⁠—”

  “I know.” I press my hand against his chest, and even through his suit, I can feel his warmth. I know he’s solid, and genuine, and that he wants to help. “I just can’t. I’d rather deal with James than⁠—”

  “Hey, I hate to interrupt.” James looks like he does not hate to interrupt. He looks practically irate.

  “What?” Bentley asks. “What could you possibly need?”

  “We do work together, you know.” James crosses his arms.

  I normally would agree with Bentley, but right now, I need to get some space from his gorgeous face and big, warm body. “It’s fine,” I say. “Just go. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

  Bentley looks like he wants to beat his chest and scream at James, but after balling up his fists, twice, he finally releases his anger, nods quietly, and walks off. He only looks back over his shoulder three times on his way out to Egypt, where he apparently parked.

  “Barbara,” James says.

  “How’d it go with Quintano?” I really hope he doesn’t say that I ticked him off.

  “Fine,” he says. “I think we got the gig, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “What then?” I start buttoning my coat.

  “Barbara.” His voice is tense—loaded, even.

  “What?” I snap my head up. “What do you want?”

  “I made a mistake,” he says. “I was so stupid.”

  “Oh, no.” I sigh. “What did you say to him?”

  James blinks. “To who?”

  “Quintano.” Now I’m getting annoyed. I start walking toward my car. He can follow me. “Did you complain about the whole thing being outdoors?”

  “No, I don’t mean—” He’s trotting after me, and it’s a little satisfying. Until he grabs my wrist and spins me around.

  I nearly lose my footing. “Geez, James. What?”

 

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