Filfthy (29 page)

D
emi

T
he machine breathes for him
.

And all I can think about is that damn ice cream cake.

And all those other times he showed up with a little trinket just because. A locket here. A rented chick flick there. Surprise date night. A bottle of my favorite wine. A box of chocolates—sugar-free, of course, since we had to stay in shape for the wedding.

Were those guilt gifts? Things he bought to make himself feel better about his dirty little secret?

The machine is loud. Constant. Steady.

Like my thoughts.

The swelling around Brooks’s eyes has started to go down. His purple bruises are fading to putrid shades of green and yellow. He’s almost recognizable now. He doesn’t look as though he’s fading away anymore.

Brooks’s hands rest at his sides, perfectly placed into position by some nurse, I’m sure. The thought of holding them again makes my stomach twist. Those hands—the ones I’ve loved and cherished and kissed and forgiven more times than I probably should have—have been all over someone else. I imagine them knotted, twisted in the hair of some cherry-lipped girl with legs for days and a penchant for kinky sex.

I never did let him stick it in my ass, despite his many attempts.

My stare rests on the pink scar on his left hand. It’s an old one that’s been there since our senior year at Hargrove. Brooks took me on a scavenger hunt for my twenty-first birthday, and one of the envelopes was tucked deep into a thicket of bushes. I couldn’t find it, so he stuck his arm in there only to find himself bitten by a sharp-toothed rodent. It was dark, and the thing scurried away before we got a good look at it.

I’ve kissed that scar a hundred times. I’ve kissed his lips thousands. Each time was for naught.

He’s nothing but a con artist.

A self-centered, egotistical asshole.

“Demi.” I recognize my mother’s voice from the doorway of Brooks’s room.

“Hey, Mom.” I’m grateful for an excuse to leave his side. “Dad.”

Dad stands behind Mom, removing his fedora and draping his khaki trench coat over one arm.

“We were here last night. Guess we missed you,” Dad says.

Mom runs her hand along my cheek, cupping my face and giving me those sad, sympathetic ‘Mom eyes’ before pulling me in tight. I inhale the scent of my childhood home. Cinnamon, sugar cookies, Tide, lemon Pledge, and warmth. Pure nostalgia, with a side of comfort.

“How’re you hanging in there, Demetria?” Dad asks. He only calls me by my given name in grave situations, as if “Demi” is too informal.

“One day at a time.” That seems to be my standard response these days.

Mom releases me and glances over my shoulder toward Brooks.

“I just can’t believe it.” She sighs. “Our sweet Brooks. He’s always the life of the party. So lively and energetic. To see him like this . . . it’s . . . it’s just wrong.”

She takes his side, slipping her hand into his and tracing her thumb along his old scar.

“Never should’ve happened,” she says. “He didn’t deserve it.”

My parents haven’t asked where he was going or why he was on the highway at nine o’clock on a Tuesday night. Alone. Not even my father, a prominent trial lawyer with an obsession with detail and facts.

I think they’re afraid to make a wrong move around me, as if all it would take is one question to send me over the edge again.

If only they knew.

“Derek’s on his way,” Dad says. “He was finishing up at the office and then swinging over to grab Haven. It’s his weekend.”

My heart swells at the thought of seeing my three-year-old niece. I want to sweep her up in my arms and bury my face in her silky blonde hair. Nothing’s better in this world than looking into the eyes of that little angel and feeling the tight squeeze of her arms around my neck.

God, I love kids.

I miss my kindergarteners too. All twenty-eight of them. I’ve got such a great class this year, and half of them were assigned to me at their parents’ request. Supposedly, I have a great reputation in the school district, and it’s only my third year in.

Dad stands at the foot of Brooks’s bed, his jaw set and his eyes focused, as if he’s silently willing him to wake.

“Where’s Brenda?” he asks.

I shrug. “She comes and goes.”

Mom laughs, halfway rolling her eyes. “That woman can’t sit still for two seconds. God love her.”

“How’s she taking everything?” Dad pushes the sleeves of his navy sweater up to his elbows before folding his arms.

“She’s Brenda. She’s handling it in her own special way.” I leave out the Pinterest board.

“I saw something online about a fundraiser she’s organizing?” Mom turns to me, her brows furrowed. “How she has time to organize one is beyond me, and the whole town knows they don’t need the money.”

Her voice is barely audible.

“Bliss,” Dad says.

“It’s her sister,” I say. “Her sister is organizing it.”

“Either way, it’s at the First Methodist Church next weekend,” she says. “They’re having a charity auction and something like two thousand people have already RSVP’d. The whole community’s rooting for Brooks to pull through.”

Maybe because half the retirement accounts in this town were built up by his father and grandfather over the last hundred years. Abbott Investments has made blue collar factory workers into bona fide millionaires. They’re loaded. Jack Abbott is known for his generosity. Rumor has it that his ninety-year-old, homebound father has a will a mile long, and everyone’s hopeful for a piece of the pie when he eventually passes.

It’s looking like that’ll be soon.

Or maybe they do actually care about the Abbotts. It’s hard to tell. People are so fucking fake these days.

And full of secrets.

And lies.

Saying one thing, doing another.

“I’m here, I’m here.” Delilah bursts into the room, a Styrofoam coffee cup in hand. “Sorry. Had to email my professor my paper, and the Wi-Fi wasn’t working at home. Did you guys change the password? Had to stop at a coffee shop and steal theirs.”

My sister pulls up a seat next to my mother, placing her hand on the edge of his bed.

“I hate seeing him like this,” she says to Mom. “So weak. And fragile.”

“And quiet,” Mom says with a laugh.

“He’s going to wake up, I just know it.” Delilah nibbles on a thumbnail.

“How’s old Jack Abbott taking this?” Dad clears his throat, turning toward me.

“I don’t think he knows what’s going on half the time,” I say. “I’m sure Brenda’s told him, but he’s usually pretty out of it.”

Last time I was over, Jack seemed coherent enough to join us for dinner. Ten minutes into our catered,
coq au vin
feast, he grabbed my ass, called me Bren-Bren, and asked me when I got the new jugs. Brenda turned a deep shade of red and called his nurse to come get him.

That was months ago, and I haven’t seen Brooks’s father since.

A quick knock on the door, followed by my niece yelling, “Nana! Papa!” steals all of our attention from Brooks.

“Hey, Monkey.” Dad scoops Haven into his arms. “How’s my favorite troublemaker?”

Haven’s white-blonde hair falls in her face, but it doesn’t hide her ear-to-ear grin. She lunges for my mom next, nearly falling out of my dad’s arms. Mom catches her and gives her a squeeze. We all miss her since The Bitch won primary custody last year. It was a bullshit move, and between my dad and Derek, it never should’ve happened, but the judge assigned to their case was notorious for siding with mothers.

“I’m so sorry.” A sweet nurse in pink scrubs walks in, hands clasped in a prayer position. “We typically don’t allow small children on this floor, and there’s a limit of three guests at a time in these rooms.”

“Of course,” Dad says.

“I’ll take her,” I offer before anyone else. I’d rather spend a little time with Haven than sit around Brooks’s room pretending to be devastated while simultaneously resenting him.

I scoop her out of Mom’s lap, and she wraps her legs around my hip. She smells like Play-Doh and strawberry shampoo.

“I’ll come.” Delilah follows.

We leave Brooks’s floor and head out to an empty lobby where a TV plays The Price Is Right on mute with the closed caption running. An assortment of
Highlights
magazines are splayed neatly on a nearby table, and a corner houses a child-sized table and chair set and a shelf of half-broken, well-loved toys.

It doesn’t take but two seconds for Haven to spot the kiddie corner. She shimmies down my leg and makes a mad dash.

“Apparently, toys are way more fun than the two coolest aunts in the world.” Delilah smirks.

“Someday, she’ll get her priorities straight.”

We take a seat next to Haven. I’m sure we look ridiculous sitting in these tiny chairs, but no one’s around to see it, so it doesn’t matter. A tin can full of broken crayons and a small stack of coloring books call to us.

“You wanna?” Delilah points.

I nod. “Duh.”

Haven plays with two naked Barbies and a handful of matchbox cars, and we color.

“I know you’re probably getting sick of people asking, but—”

My hand flies up. “I’m fine, Delilah. I’ll let you know if I need anything. Can we talk about something other than Brooks right now? ‘Cause if there’s anything I need, it’s a break from talking about Brooks.”

“Fine.” She grabs a nubby yellow Crayola and shades the tail of a triceratops.

“Dinosaurs aren’t yellow.” Haven sticks a chubby hand on her hip and furrows her brow.

“What color do you want me to use?” My sister plunks the crayon back in the tin.

“Blue,” Haven says. “Like your eyes.”

“Your eyes too,” I say.

“You too, Aunt Demi.” Haven grins. “We all have the same eyes.”

“We do,” I say.

Delilah fishes around for a usable crayon in the most appropriate shade of pale blue and pulls out periwinkle instead.

“Close enough.” She scribbles.

“How’s school going?”

“Talk about annoying questions.” She laughs. “People act like if you’re in school, that it’s the only thing going on in your life.”

“You’re in grad school. I assume it keeps you pretty busy. I know I don’t hear from you as much anymore.”

“Aw, are you trying to guilt trip me? Because I distinctly remember your Hargrove days and going weeks without so much as a text.” Delilah grins. “You were wild back then.”

I lift a brow, silently pleading the fifth.

“At least until Brooks came along,” she mutters. Her eyes lift to mine. “Sorry. I forgot. No Brooks.”

I thank her with a tight, smug smile, and she laughs. It’s easy to forget, in these small, mundane moments, the swarming chaos happening outside this little waiting area.

“Did Royal ever show back up?” My sister stops scribbling and glances across the tiny table at me.

Haven hops off her chair and grabs a doll. She clearly doesn’t seem to mind that it’s missing an eye, because she cradles it in her arms and gives it a kiss on the cheek. I guess that’s what you do when you love something. You choose not to see their imperfections. You look past the things you don’t want to see.

Guess that’s why they say love is blind.

I must have loved Brooks enough, because apparently, I was blind to his affair. There had to have been signs. I just chose not to see them.

Is that what I’d done all these years? Looked past all those times Brooks had disappointed me or fielded my questions or thrown man-tantrums when he wanted something badly enough?

Last Valentine’s Day, I wanted to eat at an Italian restaurant, Café Tosca. I made reservations. He cancelled them. Said he wanted Thai. I begged and pleaded. We fought. Over a fucking restaurant.

Café Tosca is in Glidden.

I bet that was
their
place.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.” Delilah throws a broken crayon at me. “Did Royal show up again?”

I tighten my shoulders and lick my lips. I could tell her no, and I could change the subject, but she’s my sister. She’ll see right through me.

“Yeah,” I say. “He did.”

“And?”

“And.” I inhale, taking my time. “He acts like he’s sorry.”

“Sorry for what? Did he tell you?”

“No. He won’t tell me yet. But he says he will. He just wants to get to know each other again. He’s afraid I’m going to judge him.” I trace circles into my coloring book page, outside all the lines. “He must’ve done something horrible, Delilah.”

“Obviously.” Her head shakes and her eyes widen. “I know you think you loved him, but you two were just a couple of kids. You didn’t even know what love was back then.”

I stop tracing circles.

“It’s been seven years. You’re completely different people,” she says. “Royal did something bad. Bad enough that Dad made him stay away.”

Yeah. Our father is the only person who knows what happened. He hasn’t told my mother. Or Derek. Or me. He heard me cry myself to sleep for months and refused to give me so much as an explanation. The only thing he said to me was that anything I could possibly imagine would be a million times better than what actually happened.

“You don’t think people can change for the better?” I ask.

“Of course they can.” My sister’s words snip. “That’s not my point. My point is, you’ve moved on. You’re engaged to Brooks. You’re a grown woman. Your entire life is ahead of you. You don’t need to be drudging up the past, no matter how tempting it might be.”

“I’m not drudging up the past.”

“That’s exactly what you’re doing.” She exhales loudly. “I know you, Demi. You’ve been stuck in the past for years. You were finally moving on, and now it’s like you’re taking ten giant steps back. I see it. You don’t want to talk about Brooks. Truth be told, you don’t even act that upset about it. I worry that you’re internalizing, and that’s going to cause you to seek comfort in all the wrong places.”

Wrong places clearly meaning: Royal.

I throw the crayon at the tin. It hits the side and bounces off until it rolls down the table and falls to the dense carpet with hardly a sound. Not quite the statement I was trying to make.

“How am I supposed to act? You tell me. Do you want me to cry? Starve myself? Hang out at the bars? Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Just don’t accuse me of not being sad. This entire situation is depressing.” I huff. “In more ways than you’ll ever know.”