“Well, this is nice,” Chelsea cooed, gaze drifting from the three cars in the driveway to the wind chime hanging above the porch.
Daisy’s family lived in a little one-story house with a brown garage and a red brick walkway. The three cars in the driveway were used interchangeably. Whoever needed to go somewhere asked Ma for the keys and were given whatever set was within her reach. The Ford Taurus was beat to shit, with broken power steering, cigarette burns on the seats, and Doctor Pepper stains on the floor mats. The Jeep Wrangler had been bought sometime after ’95 but before the millennium—Daisy couldn’t remember exactly when. The base model Corolla had back windows that wouldn’t roll up. Whoever got the Corolla always had to check the car for spiders or bees, a lesson learned by Daisy on an unlucky drive to school.
A loud crash echoed from inside the house, followed by the familiar sound of Grandma yelling.
“Ma’s burning something; I guarantee it,” Daisy said through a sigh.
She looked at Chelsea, nervous and shaken, fidgeting as she stood awkwardly beside her.
“C’mon.” Daisy held out her hand. Chelsea hesitated, but took it. “Sorry in advance for my brothers.”
“Why are you…” Chelsea’s question died on her tongue as soon as Daisy opened the front door.
A chorus of voices sang out her name as soon as she stepped inside. Her sisters stopped playing with their toys in front of the television, skipped forward, and plastered themselves against her legs.
“Marigold! You’re so big,” Daisy exclaimed, “And look at you, Jasmine!”
Chelsea stood behind her, wringing her hands and trying to smile.
Lee rose from his place on the couch.
Grandma and Violet bickered in the kitchen. They didn’t pay much attention to the new arrivals, just yelled their hellos and kept cooking.
“Is this her?” Jasmine asked, peering at Chelsea from behind Daisy’s legs.
“Yes, it is. Chelsea, these are my sisters, Mari and Jasmine. Where are the—”
A door down the hall flew open and smacked the wall. Both boys walked out, Liko grinning, and Jun eyeing Chelsea crudely, with a sharp smile twisting his mouth.
“Look at that.” Jun whistled, punctuating every word. “She’s even hotter in person.”
Daisy swatted Jun on the arm. She snapped in Mandarin. “Be nice to her; she’s nervous.”
Jun hummed and answered. “Give me an hour with her, and she won’t be.”
Daisy hit him again.
“English,” Lee scolded. “We have a guest in our home. Don’t make Chelsea feel unwelcomed by leaving her out of conversation.” He didn’t extend his hand and wait. Instead, Daisy’s father did as he had since she could remember and cradled Chelsea’s hand between his own, covering her knuckles and palm. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I hear you’re a doctor?”
Chelsea nodded. “I am, yes. And you’re…” Her gaze slid sideways to Daisy, searching for a clue.
“Lee, Daisy’s father, and an IT specialist,” Lee said. He narrowed his eyes at Daisy, the gray in his brows seemed more prominent as he lifted them. “I see my dear daughter doesn’t talk much about her family?”
Daisy shook her head. “I talk about you guys,” she grumbled and bent to hug him, which forced him to release Chelsea’s hand, and Chelsea looked immensely grateful. “I just don’t tell everyone your professions. That’s a little weird.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Chelsea said. She held on to the straps of her beige fringe-purse and looked around.
Daisy kicked off her shoes and pointed at Chelsea’s feet. “Off.”
Chelsea, confused enough, blinked and cocked her head.
“Shoes,” Daisy whispered. “Take them off.”
Chelsea mouthed really?
Daisy mouthed really back.
Once their shoes were deposited in the pile next to the door, Daisy turned to her brothers, who had continued to talk in Mandarin.
“She’s tall.”
“Yeah, pretty though. Like, really pretty.”
“Looks like a spoiled brat.”
“Liko, Jun.” Daisy shot them both a hard glare. “This is Chelsea, my Rose Road. Chelsea, these are my brother’s, Liko and Jun.”
“Nice to meet you both,” Chelsea said.
“Nice to meet you,” Liko said.
“It’d be nice to eat you,” Jun said.
Daisy whipped her hand back and struck the side of Jun’s head with her open palm.
“Ow, Daisy! Ma!” Jun howled.
“Did you hear him, Ma? Control your offspring!” Daisy yelled in Mandarin.
“Jun,” Lee growled lowly. “Don’t be filthy. Daisy, you’re allowed one more slap, but that’s it. I’d hold on to it. You’ll probably need it later.”
To anyone else who looked at Chelsea, she appeared neutral, calm, receptive even, but Daisy saw the unease building in the tight line of her shoulders, clench of her jaw, and tilt of her chin. Chelsea wasn’t just uncomfortable, she was completely out of her element, an angelfish taken from its lavish aquarium and dropped in a bowl full of hard-shelled, pinching crabs.
“Ladies,” Grandma said. “Come in here and help with the sweet potatoes. If you think I didn’t notice the time, you’re mistaken. That means you’re on dish duty too.”
Of course. Daisy heaved a sigh. Her head hung back; she looked at the ceiling. “We were five minutes late.”
“Late is late,” Violet and Grandma chimed.
“Sorry,” Chelsea whispered. Her fingertips tickled the inside of Daisy’s palm. “C’mon, I like bein’ in the kitchen anyway.”
Daisy rolled her eyes. “Yeah, you haven’t been in their kitchen.” She laced her fingers with Chelsea’s and allowed her to guide them to the kitchen, which had open layout of dark wooden cabinetry, pale blue tile countertops, a tea hutch, an elderly refrigerator, pots packed together on the stove, vegetables sliced on a cutting board, and dumplings ready to be steamed lined up on the counter. “Ma, this is Chelsea.”
“I know who she is!” Violet exclaimed through a generous laugh. “Hello, my dear, welcome to our home. I’m Violet. I’m a botanist. This is Alice, my mother.”
“You can call me Grandma if you want,” Alice said, her voice windy and slow. “Or Alice. I don’t mind. Here.” She slid a knife and two sweet potatoes in front of Chelsea. “Slice these in big ovals.” She held her index finger and thumb and inch apart. “Leave the skin on.”
“What do you want me to do?” Daisy whined.
“Make the sour sauce and steam the dumplings,” Violet said.
Daisy went to work on the sauce while Chelsea cut the sweet potatoes. In the living room, Lee watched a documentary about wolf packs in Canada, Liko and Jun played on their handheld video game consoles, and the girls resumed their playdate with their stuffed animals on the floor.
Chelsea, having something to focus on, relaxed. She tucked a ringlet behind her ear and cut the sweet potatoes just as Alice had instructed. When she was finished, they gave her a few stalks of celery to chop, then some eggs to crack into a hot skillet.
“Tell us about yourself, Chelsea,” Violet said, breaking the quiet. The kitchen was hot and sticky. Even with the open layout and the cracked window, four women sharing far too small a space made things feel cramped. “I want to know everything.”
Chelsea glanced at Daisy, mulling over what to say. “Well, I’m from a small town in Georgia. I was a cheerleader in high school, graduated top of my class, and—”
Violet flapped her hand and made a psshhh noise. “No, no, dear, tell me about you. What’s your favorite flower?”
Chelsea swallowed hard. “Well, I’m…” She paused, breath stuttering past her lips. “I guess I’m a big fan of orchids, but I happen to find succulents the most interesting. Different kind of cactus
, aloe and such.”
“Oh, desert plants, hearty and strong. Favorite color?”
“Yellow.”
Alice hummed. “Ah, for joy and radiance. If you could be any animal, what would you be?”
Daisy grinned as she steamed dumpling after dumpling, watching the tension dissipate and Chelsea’s guard drop slowly but surely.
Chelsea smiled, swallowing a short laugh. “I’m not sure, I’ve never really thought about it.”
“Daisy would be a toad,” Jun piped up.
“Jun’s just mad because Grandma said he’s a mole, always burrowing away from his problems,” Daisy retorted. “I think Chelsea would be a big cat, a lynx or a leopard or something: solitary, fun-loving, sharp teeth.”
“Those in line with feline energy are usually afraid,” Alice said. “Violet is a tiger. She only knows how to roar at her insecurities with her ears back.”
“Ah, Ma, tigers are beautiful,” Violet said.
“Aiden called me a hyena once,” Chelsea said, snorting a sarcastic laugh.
Not once, Daisy thought. Many times.
“Hyenas eat their own young and are almost twice as strong, if not more, than their male counterparts,” Liko chimed from the living room.
“Oh, then I’m definitely a hyena,” Chelsea purred.
Daisy tilted her head back to laugh, and so did the rest of the family. Chelsea, too. Daisy finished steaming the dumplings while her mother and grandmother asked Chelsea silly question after silly question, oohing and aahing after every answer.
Chelsea mentioned her love of problem-solving.
Alice hummed and said, “Yes, that’s good, very good for an honest heart.”
“I’m a bit of a control freak when it comes to how I’m perceived,” Chelsea confessed.
“Oh, don’t hold on to such a thing for so long. Worry ages you, causes wrinkles; look at Violet.”
Violet said something to her mother in Mandarin. Daisy didn’t catch most of it, but she laughed.
“No, no, salt over the shoulder doesn’t rid you of ghosts. You have to sprinkle chalk to do that,” Alice corrected when Chelsea brought up feeling haunted from time to time. Alice handed a piece of the freshly oven-baked turkey to Chelsea. “Try this. It’s good, isn’t it?”
Chelsea chewed slowly and nodded. “That’s delicious. What kind of spices did you use?”
“This one’s good,” Alice said, patting Daisy on the shoulder. She didn’t answer the question about the spices, just pointed at Chelsea with a crooked, long finger. “Smart and funny. A little dark, like you, very smart. Wicked, like that boy you live with.”
Chelsea sputtered out a laugh.
“It’s time to eat!” Alice waved her arm at the rest of family and ushered them toward the dining room, one doorway past the refrigerator, through the other end of the kitchen.
Daisy felt Chelsea’s smile against her ear. “Your family is amazing,” she said, barely whispering around a chuckle.
“I warned you,” Daisy said, turning to catch Chelsea’s mouth in a quick kiss.
“Gross,” Jun groaned, stepping past them into the dining room.
Daisy raised her hand to swat him, but Lee flashed his palm in front of her. “Only one more,” her father reminded, “I’d save it.”
“I can’t believe you’re allowed to hit your brothers,” Chelsea mumbled.
“Just Jun,” Daisy, Lee, and Liko said at once. Daisy continued, “And not hard. It’s a running joke, don’t worry.”
“I don’t get it,” Chelsea said.
Daisy shrugged. “He’s an ass. Don’t worry about it. C’mon, dinner time.”
They assembled around the table as they always did: Alice at one head of the table, Violet at the other; Lee on one side with the boys; Daisy and Chelsea on the other with the twins. It was a tight fit, but they managed.
Alice lifted her glass of water. “On three, say what you’re thankful for.”
Chelsea glanced at Daisy, unsure.
Daisy nodded and curled her foot around Chelsea’s calf under the table.
“One, two,” Alice looked at everyone expectantly.
The air vibrated around voices, most of them indiscernible as they said what they felt at once.
Daisy said, “I’m thankful for you,” and she looked at Chelsea.
A soft, smile turned Chelsea lips. She said, “I’m thankful for us.”
They ate dumplings and steamed vegetables, roasted goose and minced chicken. Chelsea talked openly about her love of horror movies and special effects makeup. She told stories that had nothing to do with her career or her family. She laughed genuinely, her eyes shone bright, and she held Daisy’s hand under the table throughout the dinner.
“Where are you two going after this? Daisy told us you had plans,” Lee inquired. He poured Chelsea another glass of ginger ale.
“We promised to have dessert with the wicked boy and his boyfriend,” Chelsea said.
Violet laughed, loud and unabashed. “Tell him to take that horrid thing out of his nose when you see him.”
Chelsea arched a brow at Daisy.
Daisy’s cheeks heated as she wrinkled her nose, feeling the slender curve of her septum ring, which she had tucked away.
“I most certainly will,” Chelsea assured.
Daisy swallowed her laugh and squeezed Chelsea’s hand, thinking of every Thanksgiving before this, and how every Thanksgiving after would be better and better and better.
33
Laguna Beach was a series of nerve endings, a bundle of feelings all coming to fruition at one time—anger arguing with joy, excitement smothering curiosity, loneliness taking shelter with longing. It turned on a different axis than the rest of the world. Its truth was always bent; its shape was always attached to a shadow that didn’t match. Something about it said stay, something about it said wild.
Chelsea had never been in a place like this one with people like them. She’d never walked down streets she didn’t know and thought I’m home. She’d never looked at three people standing in front of a display at Art Walk and thought I’m free.
Places that weren’t home shouldn’t feel like home, yet here she was, walking down the boardwalk on Main Beach, in the home she’d chosen.
People weren’t supposed to be the things that set her free, yet here she was, unapologetic and fiercely protected, wearing what she wanted, going where she wanted, loving who she wanted, free, free, free.
Salty air brushed across her face and tousled her already wavy hair into a mess. She stopped to bundle her unmanaged mane into a bun on the back of her head. Sand crackled under her cowboy boots as she shifted from foot to foot. Her black jeans were snug around her hips and a scarf was wrapped around her throat. In the distance, Aiden stood with Daisy in front of a booth crowded with easels and photo-boards. Daisy’s sketches were on one side, a cluster of faeries and dragons, mermaids and elves. On the other side were Aiden’s photographs. She could see a few from the entrance of the boardwalk: two large pictures in thick, black frames, and an assortment of smaller ones below.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket.
Daisy Yuen 12/3 2:01 p.m.
Well don’t just stand there
Chelsea smirked at her phone, stuffed it in the pocket of her coat, and made her way past a wind chime stand, a pottery booth, and a local gallery’s immaculate sculpture display. Locals and tourists alike browsed from booth to booth, pointed at certain pieces, and chatted quietly amongst themselves. A jeweler crafted leather bracelets at one of the smaller stands. On the outskirts of the artist’s booths, a man strummed his acoustic guitar, and a woman sat beside him banging on bongos.
“Look at this,” Chelsea sang, eyeing Daisy’s sketches as she approached.
Daisy’s full, black-painted mouth quirked. A tight-fitted charcoal dress, long-slee
ved and capped in a lace collar, hugged her petite form. Her expression masked the swelling pride that radiated from behind her eyes. “They aren’t my best.”
“You’ll be sayin’ that your whole life, sugar.” She glanced from the first charcoal sketch to the next, focusing on the extravagant elf whose ears pointed up through wisps of hair and a crown of jewels and the dark, enchanting mermaid with the tail of a killer whale, who was perched on a jagged rock above crashing waves. Daisy’s talent screamed from the pages. Her passion was bold and vicious, a place where beauty waged war with awfulness. Creatures clawed their way through ink and charcoal and watercolors, demanding to be seen, commanding the utmost attention.
However, there was one sketch, a small, framed piece leaning against the bottom of the easel behind the booth, that Chelsea couldn’t stop looking at.
It was simple, too simple to be in the pool of artwork Daisy had on display: a charcoal sketch of rough lines and smudged fingerprints; a woman standing with one foot tucked behind the other, her jaw tilted delicately over the curve of her shoulder, and a long, frayed braid tumbling messily down her back.
“That’s Mercy,” Chelsea said. She pointed at the cat sitting by the girl’s feet.
“And that’s you,” Daisy said softly. She picked up the picture and set it on the table, which was stocked with business cards and an album full of Aiden’s other photography. Daisy tapped the sketch. “I drew it a while ago. I was watching you cook in the kitchen, and this just happened.” The tips of her fingers traced the sweeping lines that made up the drawing. “It’s not for sale, but I thought I’d bring it anyway.”
Chelsea studied the ease in the sketch, the uncomplicated, bare-footed, beautiful person Daisy had drawn. It was incomplete, but Chelsea saw the beginning of herself, the person Chelsea had fought to unearth blooming in Daisy’s artwork.
“This is how you see me?” Chelsea mumbled.
“Yes,” Daisy whispered. “I couldn’t help myself—you were drinking a glass of wine, your movements were so fluid and comfortable, like you’d been in that kitchen for years, cooking and humming and talking to yourself about the ingredients. It was that day we—”
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