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Rumi slides the heavy brush through Celine’s hair as carefully as she can. The two of them sit in silence until Celine murmurs, “Your mother and I used to do this for each other.”
Rumi has listened to more of the Sunlight Sisters’ old songs than she’s heard stories about her birth mother from the person who knew her best. Her head is filled with questions that she’s not ready to let loose, so she asks, “Will you do my hair like hers? I want to be just like her someday.”
Celine turns her head, and Rumi almost drops the hairbrush, her heartbeat speeding up beneath her shirt, beneath the patterns that shimmer on her chest. “I’ll show you some pictures,” Celine offers through a too-wide smile, her teeth pressed together, “and we’ll choose a style that feels right to you. You’ll be extraordinary in your own way, I promise.”