43. Just Kiss Already

Nearly two weeks later, I put my hand on the doorknob and stumble forward as the door is flung open. 

“She’s here!” Cassidy yells, grabbing my hand and hauling me into the townhouse and toward the stairs. Caroline locks the door and scrambles after us. We’re maybe four steps up the stairs when she appears in the doorway to the den.

Of course she’s casually devastating. It’s the same thing she was wearing at the office, but unlike me, she still looks as fresh as she did when I handed her the first coffee of the morning. Black trousers, crisp white blouse, the sleeves pushed up just enough to look effortless. There’s a bright red belt at her waist, like she woke up this morning and decided to personally end me. The necklace is this mix of colors I’d never have the nerve to wear, but somehow it just works—because of course it does.

She sets one hand on her hip in that patented mom pose, her gaze sweeping over us with cool precision.

“Cassidy,” she says, voice mild but edged with warning. “You were not raised by foxes. I don’t see the need for you to scream like one.” 

Cassidy drops my arm, turning to cling onto the banister. 

“Sorry, Mom,” she says quickly. “Can we go now? We want to watch She-Ra!” 

“If you can avoid stampeding like a herd of wildebeest, then yes, you can get the show started.” Both girls grab my arms again, and I know I’m going to find bruises later. Before they can take a step, Miranda stops them. 

“Andrea knows where the living room is, and she doesn’t need you dragging her around. We’ll meet you both up there in a minute.” 

The girls let me go, but not without twin pouts. Miranda just lifts an eyebrow, and it’s enough to have them scurrying up the stairs. 

The sound does remind me of a stampede. 

A low chuckle forces my attention back to Miranda. She’s staring after the girls, wearing the smile she saves only for them. 

She turns it on me. 

I brace, expecting the smile to change, turn into something more professional, more guarded. 

It doesn’t. 

I don’t know what to do with that, or with my stupid puddle of hope that I can’t crush back into a drop, so I do the next best thing: I ignore it. 

I realize I’m still holding The Book like a lifeline, so I hurry down the steps, stopping a good two feet away from Miranda, and hand it out for her to take. 

She doesn’t take it. She just stares at me with that smile that shouldn’t be directed towards me, and takes a step forward. Then another. She closes the distance between us, forcing me to pull my arms in, or else stab her in the ribs with The Book. 

Still holding my gaze captive, she takes The Book from my hands, her fingers brushing mine. I try to suppress the electricity that runs through every nerve in my hands. She gently tosses The Book onto the table with the flowers, and puts a gentle hand on my waist. It’s warm and steady, and I feel every single finger like they’re branding into my skin. 

Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod. 

She turns me to face the stairs, guiding me forward with a hand on my lower back. I take the cue and we head up the stairs to join the girls. 

***

I glance at Miranda out of the corner of my eye as the credits for the She-Ra episode start to roll. 

The Harry Potter outing was odd. 

The freeze out the next week was weirder. 

The weekend of Patricia’s near-disaster was a trip tumbling through Wonderland. 

Now, our second She-Ra night since The Great Thaw, is an acid trip. 

Ok, I’ve never done acid. The closest I’ve come is the occasional weed brownie at a college party. This is way more intense than any of that. 

But I’m pretty sure I wasn’t roofied today, so I guess this is reality. 

In that case, Miranda must be a cat. It’s the only explanation. 

Miranda is a creature of habit, rarely deviating from what works. Even at home, she’s particular. She has her own designated spot in each room, no doubt carefully chosen based on a variety of inscrutable factors. 

In the living room, Miranda always sits in the chair catty corner from the couch, holding the throw pillow with the blue tassels. That is Miranda’s spot, and we all know it. 

So why is she sitting next to me on the couch? 

There’s barely a foot of space between us. I could reach out and lay a hand on her thigh if I dare. I don’t. I wouldn’t. But I could. 

My family had a cat at one point. She was the queen of her kingdom, demanding we all keep to her schedule and activities. But she was also unpredictable. Every time I was sure I knew her routine, her likes and dislikes, her boundaries, she’d change them. 

For the first two years we had her, she never ever stepped in the bathroom. She would watch me brush my teeth from the threshold, but she never stepped a paw inside. 

Until she did. It was just another day, I was brushing my teeth and getting ready for school, and as casually as ever, she crossed the threshold and leapt up onto the counter. I remember staring at her, my toothbrush hanging from my mouth, and she just stared back, like, “What?”

And ever since that day, she had no problems with the bathroom. 

Miranda reminds me a lot of that cat. 

“Shadow Weaver is the WORST,” Cassidy declares. 

Lounging on the floor next to her sister, Caroline nods. “I hope She-Ra smashes her face in.”

Miranda sighs. It’s just enough to stir a few stray strands of my hair. 

“Let’s not indulge fantasies of violence,” Miranda gently scolds. The girls both twist around to face her, incredulous looks on their faces. 

“But Mom!” Cassidy gasps. “Shadow Weaver deserves it! She’s so, so mean!”

“Yeah,” Caroline agrees. “She’s a bully.”

Miranda nods slowly. “She is that. But revenge doesn’t need to be violent to be effective.”

I feel a smirk stretching my face and I try to smother it. If there’s one thing Miranda is good at, it’s plotting the perfect revenge. 

The girls think that over, then do simultaneous shrugs. 

“Okay,” Caroline concedes. “But can we watch the next episode now?”

Miranda nods. “Two episodes a week. That’s the deal.”

Caroline grabs the remote, and the next episode begins. 

Less than two minutes in, and I can tell the girls have found their favorite episode. Sure, we’re still on season one, but apparently nothing else can compete with Princess Prom. 

“How dare they take best friends and turn them into giant sword ladies who run off with people clearly inferior to you?” Catra rants on screen. 

“But Adora asked you to say with her!” Caroline crows, laying flat on her stomach, propped up on one arm, the other reaching toward the screen. “You could’ve gone with her!”

Miranda hums. “Sometimes people would rather stay somewhere familiar—even if it’s cruel—than risk everything for a feeling they’ve never dared to call by its name.” 

“But she made the wrong choice,” Cassidy argues. “And she knows it! She wouldn’t be so angry if she thought she’d made the right one.”

Miranda flashes her daughter a proud smile, but Cassidy is too tuned into the tv to see. “You’re right,” she says. “But not everyone is brave enough to admit when they were wrong. Remember that darling: seeing through your own justification takes courage. You have to be brave enough to be honest, and strong enough to accept the pain.”

“Why doesn’t she just leave the Horde and go find Adora? She could say she’s sorry. Adora’s nice, she’d forgive her. And then they could both be happy!”

“Pride. And fear,” is Miranda’s simple answer. 

And that’s it for any serious discussion, because apparently it’s not a prom episode without a fashion montage. 

“Mom!” Cassidy shouts, kicking her feet excitedly. “It’s a fashion montage! What do you think, what do you think?!” 

I glance over to see Miranda’s face. Okay, I’ve been glancing at her from the corner of my eye every few seconds since this insane non-acid trip started, but this time I let myself look over fully. 

She’s tapping a single, perfectly manicured nail against her lips, her eyes thoughtful on the screen. I’m a little surprised she’s taking it seriously - it’s cartoon fashion, not haute couture - but I should know better. It’s for her girls. 

“The key to fashion is knowing yourself. Catra, for all her faults, knows who she is. Picking out the perfect suit right away is a testament to that. Bow is close. He takes a little longer, first trying to convince himself he’s comfortable in the traditional suit he first picks out. But he makes it his own when he lets his midriff show.”

The girls are whipping their heads between the tv and their mom, equally captivated by both. I have to swallow a lump in my throat. If the world could see this, there wouldn’t be a custody battle. These girls love their mom, and Miranda would do anything for them. 

“Scorpia,” Miranda continues, chucking. “Is very unsure of herself. She wants to be a princess, so she tries on dresses that she thinks will make her look like one. She doesn’t realize that she already is one. And Adora…” Miranda sighs with a smile. “She doesn’t see the point of dressing up. All about practicality, that one.” Miranda’s eyes slide to meet mine, her smile turning devious. “Reminds me of someone else I knew.” 

I scoff with a mock glare, turning my attention back to the scene. 

“At least you used the past tense,” I say in a faux grumble. 

I feel Miranda’s eyes looking me up and down, taking in every inch. 

“You’re learning,” she says. “I suppose progress is all I can ask for.”

Now that makes me want to laugh, but I hold back my snort, not wanting to interrupt the show. Instead, I flash her a grin. 

And then I remember that this is the real world, not Wonderland, and I should not be joking with my boss. 

I’m not going to call it flirting. Because it wasn’t. 

I turn my full attention back to the tv, pretending I don’t feel Miranda’s gaze lingering on my profile. Thankfully, the girls provide ample distraction. 

“OH MY GOD THEY’RE DANCING!” Cassidy screeches. 

“Yes, dear, but we don’t need to rupture any eardrums over it,” Miranda soothes. 

“Maybe my plan won’t work,” Catra teases Adora. “But then again,” Catra whips Adora into an iconic dip. “Maybe it already has.” 

“Just kiss already!” Caroline whines into a pillow. 

“Mm," Miranda says as we watch Adora fight in vain to stop Catra’s plan. “They have you right where they want you, dear.” 

“No,” Caroline argues. “I want them to kiss!”

“Every story is about tension and release. It’s the very rhythm of breathing. And slow burns, well they dare you to hold your breath, increasing the tension inch by painful inch, until you can’t take it anymore.”

“What happens when you can’t take it anymore?” Caroline whispers, watching Catra fall from the cliff and through the clouds below. 

“They finally let you gasp for air.”