“You have not, but this was about making a fifteen-year-old more comfortable with letting me take the pictures, so I promised her that Inara and Victoria-Bliss are the only ones other than me who’ll touch the bag, much less the pictures.”
He considers that for a moment, then adjusts his grip on the other two bags. “Fine.”
It’s a cheerful ride to the restaurant, a Mongolian grill at which Priya insists we eat at least once per visit. They tell us about shows they’ve seen and some of the weirder patrons at the restaurant where Inara and Victoria-Bliss have worked for years. Priya shows us a picture of the giant colorful sticker chart on the back of the door where they mark off different ethnic foods they’re trying this summer, and for some reason none of them can explain, the stickers are all of professional wrestlers.
Once Vic sends us word he’s on his way home, we finish up and herd everyone back into the car, still laughing and talking over each other. It’s later than I realized, the sky edging into night. Inara is the first to spot the house. “Oh, he finished repairing the garage,” she notes.
I catch Sterling’s grin in the rearview mirror, but she doesn’t turn around to share it with the girls.
Eddison pulls the car into Vic’s usual spot on the driveway and we spill out, grabbing bags at random to carry in, with the exception of Priya’s duffel, which she grabs herself. Vic meets us outside, twirling three key rings on one finger. All three girls pile against him for a hug, and he’s laughing as much as any of them.
Sterling snaps a picture on her phone.
“All right, these are for you,” Vic announces, handing each of them a ring with a key. Each key is different, the fun decorated ones you can cut at the hardware store rather than the boring silver or brass ones that come standard with a lock. The girls look at the keys, at each other, and then back at him. “This way.” He leads them onto the new mini-sidewalk that curves off from the driveway to the outside of the garage, ending near the back of it at a sturdy door. “Try it.”
“Vic . . . ,” Inara says slowly.
“Try it.”
Her key is bright blue with ladybugs on it, and it slides easily into the lock. She’s immediately met with a narrow, fairly long flight of stairs, and the other two follow after her when none of us show signs of moving. Then we race up after them.
As we round the corner, there’s a bright flash from a camera, which has to mean Jenny and Marlene were already waiting. Over the spring and early summer, the hired crew has been hard at work adding a second story to the garage, the top level fully insulated and wired for electricity. There’s a small kitchen, mostly built for snack purposes, a full bathroom, a bedroom with a set of three staggered beds, a cross between triple bunk beds and a stepladder, and the biggest part, a living room with comfortable couches and beanbags and with a TV in one corner.
“Welcome home,” Vic says simply, as the girls stare around in wonder.
They drop their bags and tackle him in another hug that sends him toppling back onto a couch. Just before he lands, Priya grabs one of the throw pillows and tucks it behind Vic’s back to soften the landing. She grins, bouncing on the seat beside him, and Victoria-Bliss laughs and chatters, but Inara, eyes bright, turns her face into his shoulder and holds tight.
Slipping between me and Eddison in a move that only startles Eddison a little, Sterling puts her arms around our waists. “Today’s a good day,” she says quietly.
In spite of everything that happened earlier, I have to agree.
Eddison doesn’t say anything, but he’s got the small, soft smile that only comes out for family, and that’s better than a cheer.
The next day, Vic drops the girls off at Eddison’s on his way to work with a stern warning to spend the day relaxing, and Sterling joins us shortly thereafter with breakfast. None of the three girls are especially morning oriented, and I’m sure they stayed up far too late with the giddiness over the apartment. When they’re a little more awake, we cycle through turns in the bedroom to change into swimsuits and head down to the pool. Inara and Victoria-Bliss in high-backed one-pieces don’t surprise me. However comfortable they’ve grown with the enormous butterfly wing tattoos that were forced on them, they don’t generally choose to have them show in mixed company.
Priya walks out in a royal blue bikini and an open baseball shirt. I glance over to Eddison, who sighs and bites the inside of his cheek to keep from begging her to put on something more concealing, because, while Eddison is wonderful at respecting bodily autonomy, Priya is his little sister. I don’t know how many brothers are ever comfortable with their little sisters (or sisters in general, I guess) in bikinis. Then Sterling walks out in a bubblegum-pink two-piece with a flirty ruffle along the hips, and Eddison’s cheeks turn a shade close to matching.
As the rest of us settle into deck chairs for some sun, Eddison immediately dives into the pool to start laps. He isn’t going to say it unless I press, but I suspect he’s a little uncomfortable at how his being part of the company could be perceived by people who don’t know us. It does look a little like a harem. I don’t press, though. He’s a genuinely good man, and he’s uncomfortable for our sake more than his. There’s not really a way to talk him out of that one.
“Does your mother know about that?” Sterling asks, pointing to the tattoo that stretches along Priya’s entire left side.
“Helped me pick the parlor and went with me to every session,” the girl answers with a laugh. At the beginning of summer, she kept slipping into French whenever she wasn’t directly addressing one of us, her brain hardwired from three years of living in Paris. She hasn’t done it in a couple of weeks, though.
I lean over in the chair so I can see it better. I knew she was working on it over the spring months, but she didn’t tell us what she was getting. Last time she was down here, at the beginning of summer, the final session was still healing, so she didn’t show us. If the size of it is somewhat surprising, the images are absolutely Priya. A large chess queen, made of colorful stained glass, stands in a base of flowers. Jonquils, calla lilies, freesia, all the flowers left by the serial killer who murdered her sister and then hunted Priya. Chavi’s flowers, sunshine yellow chrysanthemums, ring the queen’s crown. Above the chrysanthemums float two butterflies, large enough to make out their specific coloring.
I don’t have to look them up to know what they are: a Western Pine Elfin and a Mexican Bluewing, which can be found in more detail on Inara’s and Victoria-Bliss’s backs respectively.
“I felt like I could finally leave it behind,” Priya says quietly.
“It?”
“The sense of being a victim. Like somehow it was all finally mine, and under my skin where it belonged rather than shredding me.”
Without conscious thought, my fingers trace the scars on my cheek, covered with waterproof makeup. Priya’s seen them bare, but I don’t think Inara and Victoria-Bliss ever have.
But then, even outside of the tattoos, they have their own scars. Inara’s hands will forever show the trials of the night the Garden exploded, burns and bits of glass leaving their marks when she fought to keep the other Butterflies safe in impossible circumstances. Priya’s hands have thin, pale scars across her palms and fingers where she fought for possession of a knife, and a worse line across her neck, a blade held to her pulse.