Filfthy (25 page)

R
oyal

“
R
oyal
. . .” Her mouth hangs open, her fingers grazing her sticky lips. All color drains from her pretty face as she backs up.

Considering every shitty thing I’ve been through in my twenty-six years, vomit on my shoes doesn’t rank near the top of the list.

Not even close.

“It’s . . . fine.” I lift one shoe, and a hunk of orange goop slides off the toe.

Demi widens the door and motions for me to come in, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her sheer, peach robe.

“Let me grab a towel.” She stumbles down a hallway and returns with a fluffy white towel that smells like a fabric softener teddy bear and looks expensively soft. Falling to her knees, she dabs my shoes, ruining the pure white with splotches of carrot-colored puke.

Demi’s hand flies to her mouth once more and she retches, her shoulders hunching tight.

“Demi.” I reach for her arm to try to get her to stand. She rises, hand covering her mouth and crystalline blue eyes round as saucers. I’m two seconds from asking where the bathroom is so I can escort her there, when she loses it again.

Third time’s a charm.

The scent of ripe vomit floods the small space of her foyer before landing on the tile with a sickening splash.

“How much did you drink tonight?” I step out of it and breathe through my mouth. With strategic moves, I maneuver myself out of my ruined sneakers and hook my hand into her elbow. “Where’s your bathroom?”

Demi covers her mouth and points down the hall, where a white door is ajar. I lead her there, and we make it just in time.

“Jesus.” I hold her dark hair back, gathering it into a ponytail in my hand as she hugs the pristine, white bowl. A jar of fresh potpourri sits on the back of the toilet, and the mirror above the sink lacks a single streak. This house is as perfect on the inside as it looks on the outside.

She rises, moving to the sink and hunching over to rinse her mouth with cool water.

“You don’t have to take care of me.” Her tongue smacks as she speaks, and her expression sours.

“Of course I do.”

Demi scoffs, pushing past me and stumbling into the hallway. I follow, placing my hand on the small of her back as she tries to climb the stairs. These slick, wooden, polished steps are an accident waiting to happen.

Her body reacts to my touch with a jolt, and her neck careens around. A mess of dark hair sticks to her face. She smells like death, which I’m learning is a lot like bile and sour oranges, and she’s giving me a look that would make the Devil tremble in his hooves.

All this, and all I can think about is how fucking beautiful she is.

And how surreal it is to be this close to her again.

How wrong this is.

How I shouldn’t be here on so many levels, and how I can’t stay away.

I pretend not to know which room is hers. When she pushes the double doors to the master suite, she makes a beeline for the dresser. Pulling drawers and rifling through clothes, she yanks out an armful of t-shirts and dumps them on the floor like only a drunk person would.

Pulling in a slow, frustrated breath, she stares at the mound of fabric and releases a defeated sigh.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I can’t decide what t-shirt to change into.”

Ah, drunk people problems.

I lean down and swipe a blue one from the top of the pile. “Here.”

Demi takes it, spreads it across her lap, and shakes her head. “This one is Brooks’s. I can’t.”

I swipe a gray one from the bottom of the pile. “This one.”

She lays it on top of the blue one. The faded Rixton Falls High School logo is clear as day, even in the dim light of her bedroom. The words “varsity football” are screen-printed across the back.

“Can’t,” she says. “This one used to be yours.”

My stomach flips. She still has my old t-shirt. That’s got to mean something.

Demi shoves the shirts off her lap and scoots back until she finds something to lean against. Her head falls back, hitting a cream-painted wall with a painful thud, and her eyes flutter shut. Two seconds later, a light snore leaves her sticky lips.

“Demi.” I take her hand and give it a gentle shake.

She’s out cold.

Covered in puke.

It doesn’t feel right to dress her in her unconscious state, but I’m not putting her to bed covered in orange slop.

Peeling the robe from her shoulders, I tug her t-shirt over her head. She doesn’t wake. I ready the gray, RFHS shirt—the very one I gave to her my senior year, after outgrowing it my last season of football—pop it over her messy hair, and guide her arms through the sleeves. Her cotton shorts appear to have miraculously avoided any splash back.

Slipping one arm under hers and my other beneath her thighs, I scoop her up and carry her to bed. I’m not sure which side is hers, so I place her in the middle. Don’t want her rolling off. I’ve never seen Demi drunk until tonight, and I’ve never spent the night with her to know if she’s a wild sleeper.

There’s a lot I don’t know about her. And maybe she’s right. We’re just a couple of strangers now.

Strangers who once loved each other more than two people probably should.

When she’s tucked in and covered up, I peel my vomit-covered jeans and socks off and toss them in the trash in her bathroom. A quick check in a top dresser drawer, and I find Brooks’s stash of pajamas.

They’re folded nice and neat. Coordinating tops and bottoms. Red. Black. Baby blue. All satin with white piping. Monogrammed. Pretentious as fuck. I opt for a pair of black pants and head downstairs. I’ll take the couch, though it’s not like I’ll be sleeping tonight.

Insomnia’s a bitch, and I need to be able to hear in case Demi wakes up tonight and decides to do something moronic. After seven years, it seems like her stubborn streak is still alive and well.

I settle in downstairs, ears tuned in in case she gets up in the middle of the night and needs rescuing once again.

And that’s kind of why I’m here.

To rescue her.

R
oyal

C
reaking
wooden steps at seven the next morning tell me she’s up. Demi tiptoes to the doorway of the living room, and I sit up, resting my elbows on my knees.

“Morning,” I break the silence after a thirty-second staring contest.

She massages her temples. “You stayed.”

“Yeah. You were in bad shape last night.”

Her eyes linger on mine from across the room until she clears her throat and glances out the window. She squints at the sunrise.

“You should eat something.” I rise and make my way toward the kitchen.

“Are those Brooks’s pants?” She follows, keeping a careful distance.

“Yeah. You kind of ruined mine.” I pull the door of her refrigerator open, like I own the damn thing, and retrieve a half-empty carton of orange juice. I step on the pedal of a nearby stainless steel trashcan. The mechanized lid lifts automatically, and I drop it in. “Guessing you’re not going to want OJ for a while.”

She sinks onto a fabric-covered bar stool. White linen to match her white counters and white cabinets. I’m not entirely convinced that anyone even cooks in here. It looks like one of those show kitchens in some designer showroom.

I spent the bulk of last night studying her immaculate living room and stared a bit too long at all the photographs in coordinating, polished silver frames. Most portrayed a picture-perfect smiling couple. A few portraits of the Rosewoods over the years were intermixed. Those brought back memories of better days. I even got choked up when I saw how different they all looked now. Bliss has gray hair. Robert’s hair has thinned a bit. The twins are grown women. Derek looks . . . like an attorney.

I was supposed to go to law school with him. We were going to practice at Robert’s firm together. A family of attorneys.

What a fucking joke of a plan that turned out to be.

There’s a painting above the fireplace mantle, which I’m assuming was done by Daphne. She always did have a knack for seeing the world through an artistic lens. It looks like an impressionistic landscape portrait of the centuries-old Carver lighthouse on Miller’s Island at sunset, where I used to take Demi to fish. Or rather, I’d fish and she’d read a book on a blanket beside me.

I grab a carton of eggs from Demi’s Viking refrigerator, check the date, and search for a pan beneath the oven.

“You sure know your way around my kitchen.” She watches my every move.

“Oh, yeah? Do other people keep their eggs in the pantry? Their frying pans in the freezer?” I click a gas burner to medium and pull a spatula from a ceramic canister next to the stove.

“I don’t like eggs.” Her nose wrinkles. She’s so fucking cute, despite the fact that she’s not trying to be. She doesn’t like me making myself at home. I see it written all over her face. But she’s too polite to stop me. Can’t take the well-bred Rosewood out of the girl, no matter how pissed she is at me. “Remember?”

I grip the edges of the white marble counter and hunch my shoulders. “Right. That’s right. You don’t like the smell.”

“The texture.”

“Yeah,” I say, clicking the burner off. “You eat toast still?”

She nods.

“Peanut butter and brown sugar?”

She nods again. “Haven’t had that in forever. You remembered.”

“You’re going to have to tell me where you keep your bread.”

Demi slides off the stool and wanders to the pantry, emerging with a loaf of nine-grain artisan bread and a futuristic toaster that would make a Jetson green with envy. She places them on the center of the island and exhales.

“This is weird. You in my kitchen. Making me breakfast.” Demi’s voice fades into nothing. She bites her lip and stares out the picture window above the breakfast nook.

“What’s weird is that you’re actually being nice to me. Last night you were looking like you wanted to bite my head off.”

Her gaze snaps back to mine. “I still want to bite your head off.”

“Can we do it after we eat? Kinda hungry.”

Demi studies me, returning to her seat. I think she might smile for a second, but that smile never comes. But within minutes, we’re casually eating toast like all of last night never happened.

The scent of brewing coffee fills the frost-colored kitchen after a while. A percolating
puff-puff, drip-drip
sound comes from a wall by the sink.

“It’s on a timer,” she says.

I glance at the built-in coffeemaker and its fifty thousand knobs.

“Of course it is.” I grab two mugs from a hook by the sink and pour, staring out a window into a manicured backyard. A tarp-covered pool centers the picturesque retreat. “So this is how the other half lives.”

Demi rolls her eyes. “None of this stuff is mine. It’s all his.”

“You live here. It’s yours.” I sip my coffee.

“Not anymore.”

She shakes her head, staring down into her cup and wrapping her hands around it.

“He called the wedding off. The night of the accident. He said he didn’t want to marry me, and he left, his bag packed before I’d even come home from work.” Demi drags a ragged breath across her lips before bringing the mug to pursed lips. “Apparently, I’m a magnet for the love ‘em and leave ‘em kind.”

Her blue eyes lift, meeting mine from across the island. So many things I could say right now, but the timing’s all wrong.

“You ever going to tell me why you left?” Her tone is flat, but her gaze is sharp. It’s a stark reminder of the fact that we’re no better off now than we were last night, when she slammed the door in my face. Just because I took care of her last night and made her breakfast this morning doesn’t mean I’m in her good graces again.

I search for the right words.

But it’s not that simple.

I clear my throat to buy some time.

And by some kind of divine intervention, I’m saved by a knock at the front door.

Demi frowns, climbing off her bar stool and carrying her mug to the front door.

A few seconds later, female voices float from the hall. I can hardly tell them apart. Dark hair filled with shiny, loose waves spilling over an olive green parka is the first thing I see. Next are the unmistakable almond eyes of Delilah Rosewood.

“What. The. Fuck.” Delilah freezes mid-step when she sees me.

“Morning, Delilah.” I lift my cup, offering a brazen toast to this unconventional reunion.

She turns to Demi, tucking her chin against her chest. “Why is
he
here, and why is he dressed like your
fiancé
? What is going on? Tell me. Tell me right now. Oh, my God. Derek’s going to flip out, and Mom and Dad . . .”

Delilah barely breathes between sentences, her hands flailing wildly as she speaks. After a minute of hurling question after question at Demi, they both turn, in unison, and stare me down.

“I wish I had an answer.” Demi speaks to her sister like I’m not standing ten feet from the two of them. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Delilah’s eyes drag the length of me, and her pointer finger rises to her lips. She’s trying to figure me out. And I can’t say I blame her. It does seem rather suspect, from the outside, that I’d show up unannounced at a time like this.

“I came here to offer support.” I shrug. “Heard about what happened with Brooks.”

“Oh,
now
?” Delilah’s head cocks. “
Now
you want to come around? Where were you seven years ago? When we had to pick her off the floor the night you didn’t come home? When Demi could barely eat for weeks because she was so heartbroken? She had to be hospitalized for dehydration. Did you know that?”

I shake my head, watching Demi. Her eyes are focused on the center of her coffee cup. It fucking kills me that I can’t comfort her right now.

“Of course you didn’t.” Delilah’s rant shows no signs of stopping. “And where were you when she totaled her car sophomore year at Hargrove? Broke her wrist and her leg in three places. Had to take a semester off school to recover. Where were you when Grandma Rosewood passed away? That woman loved you like one of her own. Where were you when Derek got married? And then divorced, because the woman he married was a fucking psychotic lunatic? He could’ve used a friend, Royal. Where were you when Daphne landed her first art show and it sold out in two hours? Huh? You were the one who believed in her. You encouraged her to pursue art when my parents wanted her to choose something more practical. Where the hell were you, Royal?”

Delilah lays into me, and rightfully so.

I’ve missed everything.

But not by choice.

If I’d had a choice, I’d have been there for it all. I’d have never left Demi’s side. Fuck. I would’ve married that girl. Been there for everything. Every step of the way.

The choice was taken away from me the night I left. Had I known when I walked out of the Rosewood house that Saturday night that I was never coming back, I would have stayed. I would’ve never left Rixton Falls.

“You were a fucking
brother
to me, Royal,” she continues, taking steps toward me. Her finger points at my heart like a loaded pistol. “I loved you like a real
brother
. You didn’t just break Demi’s heart when you left, you hurt
all
of us. Wherever you went, I hope it was worth it. We were the only family who ever gave a damn about you, and you disappeared, you worthless piece of—”

“Delilah.” Demi stops her sister, placing her hand on her shaking arm.

Delilah’s fists clench before she drops them at her sides.

“I should go.” I set the coffee mug in the sink. Sure as hell don’t see a dishwasher, though I’m sure it’s hidden behind some fancy cabinet façade. “It wasn’t my intention to upset anyone.”

My gaze meets Demi’s as I pass, but only for a split second. She looks away, her fingers still digging into the flesh of Delilah’s arm.

Someday I’ll tell her.

Someday soon, I’ll tell her
everything
.

But that day is not today.