Authors: Winter Renshaw
Royal
She answers her door, and relief swallows me whole. It’s
Saturday night, and there’s no place I’d rather be than with Demi Rosewood.
“What are you doing here?” Her face is pinched, and she has
a good grip on her front door.
“Haven’t heard from you in a few days,” I say. “Coming by to
check on you.”
I glance over her shoulder.
“You alone?” I ask.
She glances over mine. “Yeah. Come in.”
“You’re all dressed up. Going somewhere?”
She runs her hands along the black fabric of a modest dress
that covers her curved frame. Her hair is combed back into some kind of fancy
contraption, and her lips are redder than the beat up Porsche in her garage.
Polished nails fidget with a dainty diamond bracelet on her left wrist, and she
smells like a flower shop.
“I have a charity thing tonight,” she says.
“For Brooks?”
She nods. “Don’t want to go. Just making a quick appearance.
Brenda’s running the show.”
“Been worried about you,” I say. “Ever since the other day.”
“Really? What for?”
“You weren’t yourself.” I reach for her face, unable to
resist the urge to touch her a minute longer, but she pushes my hand to the
side. “And the way you left . . .”
Taking a step back, she says, “Everything is just so
complicated right now, and I’m just trying to deal with one thing at a time. I
don’t know where you fit into all this, and to be honest, I don’t have the
energy to deal with
us
right now, so
. . .”
“So what are you saying? That’s it? You’re going to focus on
Brooks now?
So long, Royal
?”
Her arms loop across her chest and pull tight. “This isn’t
about me choosing one or the other.”
“But it kind of is.” I step toward her. She steps back. “You
can’t be with fucking Brooks, Demi. You can’t. I won’t let you. You don’t have
to pick me, but for the love of God, do not pick him.”
“I’m not picking either of you.”
Her words follow with staunch silence.
I’m trapped in her gaze, watching the quiver of her lower
lip and using all the strength I have not to bite it with a kiss.
“Brooks doesn’t remember leaving me,” she says, placing her
palm on my face because she knows what I’m about to say. “So for now, for the
foreseeable future, I have to play the part.”
“You don’t have to play anything.” I scoff at her ridiculous
declaration. “Did you ask him about his mistress? About the fucking credit
cards?”
“No, Royal. I didn’t.” Her pretty blue eyes roll. “I haven’t
exactly had the opportunity, and the man just woke up from a week-long coma.
I’m not about to take him to trial over his crimes. There’s an art to war.”
“But look at you, all loyal, right by his side like nothing
happened.” I knock the heel of my palm against my forehead and then glide my
fingers through my hair, tugging handfuls at the roots.
I feel it.
I feel her slipping away.
I’m losing her all over again, and there’s not a damn thing
I can do about it.
This.
This is hell.
This is my own personal, living nightmare.
“You have it all wrong.” She bites her lip, shaking her head
hard enough that a tendril of hair comes loose. “I have no loyalty to him. I’m
just waiting for the right time to exit this whole thing gracefully.”
“Ha.” My hands hook my hips. “Of course you are. And by that
time, he’ll have weaseled his way back into your heart, you’ll have forgiven
him, and you’ll be honeymooning in Italy.”
The room goes dark for a fraction of a second, and a hot
sting radiates from my cheek.
Demi retracts her palm, taking a step away from me. Judging
by the way her mouth hangs, she’s just as shocked by the slap as I am.
I rub the tender spot for a quick second and let it go.
She doesn’t apologize, and I’m not angry with her for the
slap. It’s a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things.
“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to do that.” Her
words are low and steady. “You deserved it, Royal. For so many reasons. Reasons
I don’t have time to get into right now, because I’m running late.”
The clock on the wall catches her eye, and she pushes past
me to grab a coat from the closet in the foyer.
“We’re not finished.” I mean it in every sense of the word.
“We are.” Demi slips the coat over her delicate shoulders,
disappearing into a wrap of blackness.
“So this is it?”
Her tongue slicks across the seam of her lips and she
shrugs.
“For now.”
“Then what was the other day? At my place? What did that
mean?”
“I wish I knew.” Demi shrugs. “On second thought, maybe I
know, and maybe you’re just not ready to hear the answer.”
“Oh, we’re going to play that game now?” I huff. “You going
to hold me hostage until I tell you what you want to hear?”
“It really, really blows, doesn’t it, Royal? To need an
answer to something so badly that it damn near kills you, and to know that the
one person who could heal that pain refuses to give it to you?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“You said that before, and I still disagree with you.”
I step into her space, resting my hands on the curve of her
hip and guiding her closer to me. Inhaling her sweet scent, I lock eyes with
her.
“Don’t push me away, Demi.” I lower my lips to hers, but I
don’t kiss her. Not yet. Our mouths graze, and she breathes me in, harboring
the air and refusing to release it. My right hand cups the base of her neck,
slinking up to her jaw and feeling the wild palpitations of her heart. “I still
love you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. And I’m not giving up on us. We
deserve that happiness that was
stolen
from us seven years ago.”
She glances away, but I guide her back, meeting her glassy
gaze.
“Because it
was
stolen,” I say. “No matter what anyone says, I didn’t do it, Demi. I didn’t do
it.”
I’m overcome with a choke in my voice, so I kiss her before
she senses I’m two seconds from falling apart. Men don’t fall apart. Men don’t
cry. Men don’t get sad or weak. They brush it off and move on and pretend the
parts that hurt don’t exist. If something becomes too painful, we fucking
amputate that shit and don’t give it a second thought.
But I never could. Not with her.
Her lips warm mine, our tongues seeking one another’s.
Demi’s skin is soft as silk beneath my fingertips, and I’m tempted to yank her
hair out of that perfect little bun just so I can run my hands through it
again.
My eyes burn, but I force it away.
I need to go before she asks more questions. I’ll tell her.
I’ll tell her everything, because I know she has one foot out the door already,
and if this is my only chance to come clean, I’ll do what I have to do.
But I want her undivided attention, because this isn’t the
kind of thing you tell someone in passing. I don’t want her dressed to the
nines, on her way out the door to some charity benefit for Brooks fucking
Abbott.
“Call me when you get home tonight,” I say, cupping her face
and taking my lips off hers.
“Royal . . .” She steps away, her words stuck for a moment.
And then her shoulders slump. “I really need to get going.”
She steps into heels and motions toward the door. And with
that, we go our separate ways.
Demi
I follow Brenda like a shadow for the first hour, listening
to her repeat the same things over and over again.
It’s really
minor brain damage . . .
The doctors
are very impressed with his progress already . . .
He’ll have a
few months of physical therapy . . .
Yes, he’s
talking . . .
His short-term
memory seems to have been affected, but there’s a chance it’s only temporary .
. .
“How are you holding up, kid?”
I turn to see my brother holding a plastic cup of hot pink
punch and munching on a Madeleine cookie. His navy sweater is covered in
crumbs, and he flashes me a boyish grin, the kind I rarely see anymore since he
started practicing law.
He’s happy Brooks woke up.
Flinging my arms around his broad shoulders, I cling to him,
not sure if I’ve ever been this happy to see him.
“What’s up with you?” he laughs. “You know we just saw each
other, like, two days ago.”
“Just glad to see a friendly face.”
My back is to Brenda, and she’s yammering on to a group of
women I’ve never seen in my life. She’s soaking this up, all this attention.
And she’s good at it. People are drawn to her, and I’m not unconvinced that
most of the women in Rixton Falls want to be her when they grow older. She’s
unsinkable yet sweet, polished yet approachable.
“I don’t recognize anyone here,” I say.
“I overheard some people saying they came all the way from Oregon,”
Derek says. “I think people were really touched by Brooks’s situation, and
they’re coming in from all over. That’s the irony in tragedy. It’s beautiful
like that. It unites us.”
“If they only knew . . .”
Derek chuckles. “What are you talking about?”
I swat him away when I see Delilah gabbing it up with a
group of girls I vaguely remember from high school. I recognize their faces,
but most of their names escape me.
“Jesus, everyone came, didn’t they?” I glance around the
room in search of more familiar faces and come up mostly empty-handed. There’s
the checker from the Quik-E Save, Father Batiste from Holy Trinity Church, and
Sister Sapphire, but there’s nothing recognizable about any of the other faces
here.
“Mom and Dad are on their way,” Derek says. “Haven’s with
her mom this weekend.”
“I saved us a table.” I point across the expansive community
hall. This is where most people have wedding receptions in Rixton Falls.
There’s a stage, a dozen sparkling chandeliers, a parquet dance floor, and a
catering-quality kitchen in the back.
“You’re not sitting with Brenda?” Derek scratches his
temple.
“There aren’t assigned seats. This isn’t a wedding.”
Derek laughs.
“Sweetheart, now that the guests are mostly here, we’ll be
making a speech in a moment. Stick with me, please.” Brenda’s voice in my ear
sends a wicked zing down my spine.
“A speech?” I whip around to face her. “You didn’t say
anything about a speech.”
“Just a few lines, dear. Speak from your heart. Tell the
guests how you feel about my son, and how excited you are for your future
together. How the money we raised will allow you to stay home and care for him
as he recovers. They came all this way. You at least owe them that.”
Brenda’s sweet eyes darken for a second, but her smile
remains relentlessly unshaken.
“I’m going to look for Mom and Dad,” Derek says, “and tell
them where we’re sitting.”
So much for my quick appearance tonight.
I had no idea this was some kind of event-planned production,
complete with a PA system and an open bar.
Rarely have I held a bad thought about Brenda, but in this
moment, I resent her for turning her son’s tragic accident into a three-ring
circus.
I untether myself from Brenda with an excuse about using the
ladies’ room. She tells me to be quick, and I promise I’ll try. As soon as I’m
inside, I shut myself in a stall and take out my phone.
I can’t wing a speech.
I barely passed speech class in college.
Had to take an Ativan before each one just to survive.
Stick me in front of a classroom of five and six year olds,
and I’m golden. But public speech? In front of thousands?
My heart gallops in my chest, refusing to calm down.
And speaking about Brooks from my
heart
?
I highly doubt they want me to do that right now.
With eyes closed, I pull in three deep breaths and try not
to choke on the cheap bathroom air freshener that invades my lungs. I try to
focus on happier times. If I do that, maybe I can bullshit this enough to come
out alive on the other end.
The beginning was good.
That boy swept me off my feet like no one’s business.
Those shiny blonde waves, swept into an expensive haircut.
Those glimmering green eyes that took my breath away. That cocky smile that
made all the girls in the campus dining hall do a double-take.
I was sitting alone, minding my own business in the
cafeteria when Brooks took the seat across from me. He asked me for a napkin,
saying please and thank you, and our fingers brushed.
He was so clean-cut. Neat around the edges. Preppy.
Well-mannered.
He wore khakis and polos and boat shoes like they were his
uniform.
He was studying finance and minoring in international
business. He listened to NPR and stayed current on world news.
He could be charming and influential on his best of days,
and at the time, he seemed safe.
Brooks Abbott was the anti-Royal Lockhart.
And maybe that was the best thing about him.
My broken heart was sold the first time I saw him, and I was
convinced those green eyes were going to mend my broken heart.
“Ma’am, you about done in there? There’s a line.” A woman’s
voice precedes a knock on my stall door. I’m occupying one of only three, and
I’m sure Brenda’s outside freaking out that I’m not there when we’re about to
take the podium.
“Coming right out,” I call back.
I wash up and stare in the mirror. My lipstick has faded,
most of it left on Royal’s mouth after that earth-shaking kiss in the foyer. I
rub them together, trying to redistribute the color, and head out.
The lights have been lowered, and a spotlight is pointed at
the stage. A man in a gray suit is fussing with a microphone behind a wooden
lectern.
And I still don’t know what I’m going to say.
The room has grown louder. There are easily a couple of thousand
people here, and it sounds like they’re all talking at once.
If I listen closely enough, I can pick out Brenda saying, “
Where’s Demi? I need Demi
.”
A cool sweat glazes my forehead, and my fingers go numb at
my sides. I can’t stand up there, in front of all these people, and feed them
some bullshit about the miracle of love and how I always knew Brooks would pull
through and how I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with that amazing
man.
I’m not a bullshitter. Never have been. Never will be.
Brenda floats through the crowd, her eyes scanning for me.
And this is when my fight or flight instincts choose to kick
in.
Talk about timing.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m racing toward the
exit, everything around me a blurred whir of people and drinks and sounds and
lights against darkness.
“Whoa, whoa. Demi, where are you going?” Delilah snags my
arm when I’m a good fifteen feet from freedom.
“Brenda wants me to give a speech.” I’m breathless. I don’t
know if it’s the anxiety or the near sprint I just did in heels.
Delilah sticks her tongue from the corner of her mouth and
wrinkles her face. “Ew.”
“I can’t stand up there, in front of all these people, and
tell them how much I love Brooks.”
Delilah’s lips twist and scrunch at the corner. “All right.
Go. I’ll cover for you. I’ll tell her you got sick.”
Throwing my arms around my little sister, I whisper, “Thank
you” into her ear and bolt out the door.