Oh, I have a response: No way is a town named after cake.
But I don’t say it now. I said it five years ago, to the prettiest girl I’ve ever laid eyes on. She told me she was from a town called Sheet Cake. I teasingly called her a liar, she dumped her drink on my head, and thus began the shortest, most intense, and the only real relationship in my life.
Lindy was the One, and I totally screwed it all up.
And out of all the towns in the state of Texas, my dad unknowingly bought hers.
Chapter Two
Lindy
I try not to stare at my lawyer, whose hands are neatly folded on her desk.
My lawyer. I have a lawyer, I think. Does this mean I’ve finally arrived, or that I’m a complete failure?
The jury’s still out. Ha! Jury—get it? A perfect lawyer joke.
A few seconds into my brain’s amateur comedy hour—which seems to be my response to panic—I realize Ashlee asked me a question. “I’m sorry—could you repeat that?”
Her deep brown eyes are sympathetic. “Do you want something to drink before we start? We have coffee, tea, or water.”
I shake my head. “Just lay it on me.”
Then I wince, because who says lay it on me to their lawyer? Or to anyone, really. Maybe it’s partly due to my stress levels. But it’s also because I’m more than a little star struck.
Ashlee Belle, better known to the world as Belle, is the biggest thing to come out of Sheet Cake. A supermodel heralded as the next Naomi Campbell, Ashlee hung up her runway heels when she hit thirty to attend Stanford Law. Two years ago, she moved home to star in her own version of a David and Goliath story. As a fairly young Black woman, she opened a law firm in direct opposition to Waters and Sons—the exclusively white male firm run by the richer-than-sin founding family.
I shouldn’t say exclusively male. I think there are a few women working as administrative assistants. Maybe a paralegal or two? Billy Waters Jr., my giant mistake of an ex, works there with his father, Billy Sr., and almost every other male Waters. Which is why I called Ashlee when I suddenly found myself in a custody battle over my niece, Jo.
Ashlee and I have crossed paths before, but this is the first time we’ve had a face-to-face conversation. I need to stop being weird and fangirly and focus on the issue at hand.
Being a consummate professional, Ashlee ignores my awkwardness and gets right to it. “I’ve had a chance to look into your case. Your sister hired one of the best family attorneys in Austin. Given the fact that Rachel has completed a 90-day rehab program, attends weekly AA meetings, and is married to a wealthy tech investor with strong community ties, the courts may look favorably on reunification.”
There are so many things to process. Rachel went to rehab? Rachel has the money to hire a decent lawyer? Rachel got married? That last one, for whatever reason, hits me hard. My baby sister is someone’s wife.
For now, I’m going to skip right over what Ashlee said about reunification. I cannot imagine a world in which my sister, who abandoned her month-old daughter and did not so much as call once in five years, would get to be reunified with Jo.
Over my dead body.
I may not be her biological mother, but I am all mama bear when it comes to Jo.
“Rachel got married?” I ask.
“About six months ago, yes. Just before she entered rehab.” Ashlee pushes a folder across the desk to me. “The information I gathered so far is in here, and I’ve hired a discreet private investigator to get more details.”
I idly flip through the documents, which fill in the blanks of what Ashlee already said. Rachel checked into an upscale inpatient facility three days after her wedding. I guess rehab was her version of a honeymoon. Or maybe a wedding gift? I pause on a color photo of Rachel’s license.
The last time I saw my sister was before Jo was born, just before Rachel ran away the second time. She was gaunt to the point of being skeletal, the skin below her eyes blooming purple like twin orchids. She twitched constantly, and her eyes couldn’t stay focused on anything for longer than a few seconds.
The Rachel in this photograph is almost unrecognizable. No longer too thin, she instead looks like someone has attached her to a bike pump and inflated her unevenly. It’s not that she looks heavy, more that the weight she carries in her face doesn’t belong to her. Her hair is in a sensible bob, and she has pearls in her ears and around her neck. Four years my junior, Rachel looks at least ten years older than me.
I might not have recognized my sister at all if it weren’t for her eyes. The green color matches mine and Jo’s exactly, but the quality of them differs in a fundamental way. Flinty and sharp, they resemble some kind of gemstone cracked out of a rock in a deep, cold cave. I shiver at her smile, which looks calculating rather than happy. Or maybe I’m just projecting my memories of my sister into the photo.
“Why don’t you tell me a bit more about your situation,” Ashlee says.
I set the folder down on her desk, feeling the sudden need to sanitize my hands. Though Ashlee hasn’t been back in town for many years, that’s plenty of time to get all the dirt. Sheeters are very giving people when it comes to sharing secrets—unless it’s a family recipe. And those, they take to the grave. Everything else is up for grabs on Neighborly.
The Neighborly is the app you’d get if you crossed Facebook with Reddit and restricted the users’ geographical location to Sheet Cake. If it happens here, someone is talking about it on Neighborly within the half-hour. It’s horrible and genius and it’s totally addictive. Winnie, one of my two best friends, developed it. She’s still getting the bugs out before trying to sell the whole thing to be used in cities across the country.
I raise an eyebrow at Ashlee. “You probably know my story as well as I do.”