Authors: Winter Renshaw
Demi
“Derek’s going to be
livid
.”
Delilah folds her arms tight across her chest, angling her brows at me the
second Royal leaves. “And Dad.”
She blows a tense, quick breath past terse lips.
Outside, the rumble of his engine fades into the distance,
his roughed-up American muscle car vanishing from the rolling hills of our
picturesque community.
I shrug. “I didn’t invite him over. He just showed up.”
“And stayed the night.”
“I didn’t ask him to.” I lean against the marble island,
grazing my hand across the cool counter. All these years, he felt like
something so intangible. Like a cloud. You know it’s there, you see it so
clearly, but there’s nothing to grab onto when you try to touch it. Seeing him
in the flesh is surreal. “He knocked on my door last night. I tried to tell him
off. And then I threw up on his shoes. I don’t remember much after that, but
when I woke up, he was sitting on the living room sofa in Brooks’s pajamas.”
“That shirt.” Delilah points at me. “That’s his shirt from
high school. The one you used to wear all the time when he lived with us.”
I splay my fingers across my chest. They may as well be red
hands, because I’m caught. No one knew I kept it. And Brooks never questioned
me when I said it must’ve been one of Derek’s old shirts that got mixed in with
mine somewhere along the line. I’m not a sentimental person, but damn if I
didn’t want something I could actually touch once in a while.
“How are you not freaking out right now?” Delilah unzips her
parka and hangs it on the back of a bar stool before fixing herself a cup of
coffee. She knows where everything is, despite the fact that she’s only been
here a handful of times since we moved in last year. Delilah never forgets a
thing. “That asshole broke your heart, nearly broke
you
, and you’re standing here like you just got done meditating
with the Dalai Lama.”
My head pounds, each throb an unrestrained suggestion to
grab some aspirin. I forage the medicine cabinet before grabbing a bottled
water from the fridge.
“I’m not calm,” I say, popping the pills to the back of my
tongue. “I just haven’t had time to freak out yet. Only been up a half hour.”
I take a gulp of ice-cold water.
“He was getting ready to tell me what happened when you
showed up and interrupted us,” I say.
“Well, shit.” Delilah’s shoulders fold, her eyes
apologizing.
“He’ll be back.” I stare out the window, toward the spot
where his Challenger was parked last night.
“How do you know?”
I hunch my shoulders. “Just a feeling I have.”
“He said he came to support you. How’d he know about Brooks?”
“Claimed he saw it on the news.”
I neglect to tell her that he’s been parking outside the
house for the last several months—maybe longer, if I haven’t been paying
much attention. And I’m not quite sure how I feel about it. Flattered? Creeped
out? Intrigued? Vindicated? Maybe a sickening combination of all four?
Delilah traces a pale pink fingertip along a marble vein in
the counter. “Yeah. People on Facebook are sharing articles left and right.
Everyone’s really upset about Brooks. How’re you holding up?”
I hate this question.
I know she’s my sister, but everyone and their dog has asked
me this same question over and over since the night of the accident. My
principal. My parents, my siblings, my friends, Brooks’s friends, neighbors,
the checker at the Quik-E Save.
The Abbotts are well-loved in Rixton Falls, and Brooks
didn’t need a traumatic car accident to become the local celebrity he already
was. There’s not a resident in a ten-mile radius who hasn’t heard of them. And
three-fourths of the city use Brooks’s firm to manage their assets. There’s not
a lot of wealth in this city, but most everyone’s set to retire early thanks to
Brooks’s fancy footwork.
The correct answer to Delilah’s question escapes me.
Probably because I’m not sure what the correct answer would be.
Do I tell the truth? Do I flat out admit that I’m freaking
out right now because no one knows we broke up and no one will believe me?
My sister’s gaze softens, and she reaches for my arm,
rubbing my shoulder. She takes my hesitance as a sign that I’m not doing well,
and maybe she’s right.
“You didn’t have to fly all the way back from Chicago,” I
say.
She bats her hand. “Brooks is your fiancé. He’s
family
. I’m going to be here for you.
For him. Whatever you need. I’ve already spoken with my professors, and I’ll be
telecommuting the rest of the month. I’ll go back after Thanksgiving. For the
next three weeks, I’m all yours. Anything you need.”
I hug my little sister tight. The truth rests on the tip of
my tongue.
“Brooks is going to be fine.” She gives me an extra squeeze.
“He’s going to recover, and you’re going to marry him and live happily ever
after with lots of Abbott babies and the entire world at your fingertips.”
“I don’t want to talk about the future right now.”
“Oh,” she says, though it comes out more like a question.
“Okay. Sure. Understand.”
“I’m going to grab a shower.”
“I’ll be here.”
Demi
My sister takes my hand as we pad down the halls of Rixton
Falls Memorial Hospital that morning. I’m not sure if she’s trying to take some
of my strength or trying to give me some of hers.
“He’s in pretty bad shape,” I say before we get to his door.
“Be prepared. You’ll hardly recognize him.”
She inhales and meets my gaze with glassy eyes. “I’m ready.”
Delilah hated Brooks at first. She thought he was
pretentious and arrogant. But she doesn’t tend to immediately like most people
she meets. Sometimes she comes across as cold and unfeeling, but I’m convinced
she’s filled with stuffed animal fluff and candy hearts on the inside. Once she
warms up to someone, she’s usually loyal until the end.
Which is why I’m so hesitant to drop the bomb on her just
yet.
Delilah loves Brooks.
Almost as much as she once loved Royal.
We step into his room, and I hear her gasp from behind me.
“Oh, my God.” She steps past, kneeling at his bedside and
taking his IV laden hand in hers. Delilah sniffs. “It doesn’t even look like
him.”
She presses her cheek against his lifeless fingers.
“What are the doctors saying?” she asks.
“Nothing new since we last talked.” I take a seat in the
corner and let Delilah have her moment. “Mostly just waiting for the swelling
to subside.”
“Oh, good. You’re here.” Brenda Abbott hurries into the room
in full hair and makeup. I’ve learned over the years that an Abbott never
leaves the house without looking their best, regardless of the situation.
“
There’s no excuse for
looking like a slob
,” Brooks once said to me when I attempted to leave the
house in sweats and a t-shirt.
I was going to put gas in my car.
Brenda rushes to my side, kissing each of my cheeks before
turning her gaze to her battered son.
“Good morning, Delilah.” Brenda offers a warm smile with a
side of pained eyes. “Back from school?”
“I flew in last night,” Delilah says. “As soon as I heard, I
booked the first flight home.”
“Such a sweet girl.” Brenda places her hand over my
sister’s. “If only I had another son to marry you off to.”
Delilah tucks her face away, acting flattered. She’s not the
marrying kind, but Brenda doesn’t know it. I’ll kind of be surprised if Delilah
ever marries, and I dare anyone to so much as attempt to tie her down.
Brooks’s heart beats, providing a constant soundtrack for
this entire exchange. We’re just three women, slapping smiles on our faces and
pretending, for each other’s sake, that everything’s going to be okay.
I cross my legs and stare out the window. His room has a
nice view of Meyer’s pond. In the warmer months, hundreds of ducks like to gather
there. We used to walk the path and toss them torn pieces of stale bread. Brooks
used to like to watch them fight over them. He’d throw a tiny piece into a
group of several dozen and let them go at it. I would always chuck my pieces to
the back, to the apprehensive ducks who kept their distance. They deserved the
bread just as much as the others.
Looking back, it’s hard to tell where everything took a
detour. Despite each of our flaws and imperfections, I think we were happy
once.
Maybe he sensed my distance? My indifference? Maybe he could
tell I wasn’t fully vested and decided to jump ship before it was too late?
Maybe all of this is my fault. Maybe I was the undoing of us.
We were supposed to marry the weekend of Valentine’s Day.
The holiday falls on a Sunday this upcoming year, so our wedding would’ve been
on the thirteenth. I insisted thirteen was an unlucky number, but Brooks refuted
my insistence. He thought I was being cute. And then he accused me of trying to
postpone the wedding for the third time.
I was.
“Sweetie, did you hear what I said?” Brenda Abbott stares my
way from across the room. Delilah too.
“I’m sorry.” I clear my throat. “What was that?”
“The Rixton Falls Herald would like to interview you for this
weekend’s front page.” Brenda slicks her hand along her ebony bob. The cut
looks fresh. “I spoke with a reporter this morning, but they’d like to speak to
you as well. I told them I’d ask, and that it would only happen if you’re
ready.”
“I’ll go with you.” Delilah rises. “You shouldn’t have to
talk about this alone.”
“Oh, um.” My eyes flit between both of their stares. It’ll
be impossible to give an accurate interview when I’m still sorting through my
own emotions, but I can’t say no. “Sure, yeah.”
“Oh, my sweet angel.” Brenda rests her hand on her chest and
tilts her head. “Thank you. This will mean the world to Brooks to know we
refused to lose hope.”
“Where’s the reporter now?” I ask.
“She’s in the lobby, next to the vending machines on your
way in,” she says. “Green blouse. Long blonde hair. Her name is Afton, I believe.
Very nice young lady.”
“You must be Afton?” A few minutes later, I approach a woman
in the lobby in a silk blouse in a muted shade of moss. It’s tucked into a
black pencil skirt, and when she rises, she towers over me in patent leather
heels. A diamond broach in the shape of two interlocking Cs is attached to her
lapel, and she extends her hand with a tepid smile like she’s afraid of me.
Maybe she’s not good at this sort of thing? I imagine she
was coached not to appear overly excited, which is understandable, given the
subject matter of this interview.
“I am,” she says. “Demi Rosewood, I take it?”
I nod, meeting her handshake. It’s weak, and I can’t help
but lose an ounce of respect for her. The least she could’ve given me was a
firm handshake. This makes her look insecure despite the fact that, based on her
outward appearance, she clearly has herself together.
“There’s a small room we can use.” She points behind a
nearby reception desk, and I follow her there, Delilah by my side. She smells
like a department store perfume aisle—a faded cocktail of pretty, indistinct
scents.
We have a seat at a table in what appears to be a staff
break room. A vending machine hums in the corner next to a percolating
coffeemaker. Afton places her phone on the table between us, clears her throat,
and fusses with her shiny flaxen locks before taking a seat.
“You’re a reporter with the Herald?” I shouldn’t have to be
the one making conversation, but she seems nervous. I’ll give her the benefit
of the doubt and assume that she’s new at this or that she’s shy.
Afton smiles, softly clears her throat, and presses the
record button on her phone.
“My editor wants me to follow Brooks’s story,” she says.
“And his subsequent recovery. I thought it’d be good to start with his mother,
and then she suggested I speak to you, his fiancé.”
She says fiancé like it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.
Marriage adverse, maybe? She seems like one of those too-pretty-to-settle
types, and her green eyes harden for a second.
“How are you holding up?” she asks. “And how do you feel
about his prognosis?”
“His prognosis
isn’t good,” I say. “And I’m taking things one day at a time. We all are.”
Afton’s chic, taupe nails drum softly on the table. She
looks at me, but it’s as if she’s looking clear through me. I don’t think she
wants to be here. She seems bored with this story. I bet she’s the kind of
woman who’d rather be reporting on big city news, not small town fodder.
Or shopping.
She looks like the kind of girl who spends a healthy several
hours at the mall every Saturday.
“About his prognosis . . .” she says.
“Didn’t Brenda fill you in?” I ask.
“Oh, um.” Afton’s words sputter and stop. “Sometimes two
people might offer very different versions of the same information. It’s always
good to have more than one opinion, and we’re not allowed to interview his
doctors.”
“I’m sorry, my sister isn’t really in the right frame of mind
to talk about this right now.” Delilah reaches toward Afton’s phone and stops
the recording. “I’m not sure what you want her to say anyway? She’s falling
apart. Clearly. Look at her. She’s dealing with a lot of things right now that you
couldn’t even begin to imagine, and the last thing she wants to do is spill her
guts to some reporter who clearly doesn’t even want to be here.”
“Delilah.” I clear my throat.
“Sorry.” She turns to me. “It’s just that every second in
here is a second away from Brooks. You should be where you want to be right
now, Dem. Every minute is precious.”
Afton rises, running her hands down her pencil skirt and
pulling her shoulders tight.
“My apologies, Ms. Rosewood,” she says. She meets my gaze,
then my sister’s. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Or your family. I hope you
understand I was only doing my job.”
“Do you have a card?” Delilah asks. “She can call you when
she’s ready to talk. Until then, we ask that you give the family some space
right now.”
Afton unclasps her black patent clutch and slides a business
card across the table. Delilah swipes it and shoves it in her back jeans pocket
before placing a hand on my shoulder and leading me out.
“You don’t always have to do that, you know,” I say when
we’re halfway back to Brooks’s room. “You don’t always have to come to my
rescue.”
“That girl was annoying.” Delilah huffs. “She was so fidgety
and unprofessional. She wasn’t even interested in what you had to say. And her
questions? How are you feeling? Puh-lease. It was rude of her to waste your
time like that.”
When we return to Brooks’s room, Brenda is at his side,
chatting his ear off like he’s not in a coma. She spins in her seat when we
walk in, lifting her hand to her cheek like she’s embarrassed.
“My goodness. The doctors said maybe he could hear me.” She
chuckles. “I suppose it sounds silly, sitting here talking to him about what
I’m fixing for Thanksgiving dinner, but I thought maybe if I reminded him how
much he loves my sage stuffing, it might give him some incentive to wake up.”
Delilah and I exchange pointed looks.
Brenda slips her hands around Brooks’s and pats the top.
“Well, Brooks,” she says. “Your beautiful bride-to-be is
back, so I’m going to sneak out and make some phone calls. Think I’ll grab a
coffee too. Would you ladies like anything?”
“No, thank you,” I say.
Even in the face of tragedy, Brenda Abbott can’t shut off
the side of her programmed to tend to everyone else. Dressed to the nines, you
wouldn’t look at that woman and guess that her ninety-year-old husband is
bed-ridden in their country estate and that her sole child is fighting for his
life. I can only hope to be half as strong as that woman when I’m older.
Brenda steps out, her kitten heels gently scuffing the tile.
“He’ll wake up by Thanksgiving,” Delilah says.
“And you know that how?”
She shrugs. “If you believe something hard enough, sometimes
it comes true.”
I point to Brooks’s machines. “I don’t think
this
works that way.”
One of Brooks’s many doctors walks in, followed by a nurse
rattling off stats. They hover next to a computer in the corner and then move
to his bedside.
“How’s he doing today?” I ask as they examine him.
“We’re seeing a little bit of improvement.” The doctor’s
hair is the color of pure snow and his nametag reads
Ed Sanderson, MD
. He seems no muss, no fuss, and he’s clearly not a
fan of small talk. I could give two shits about bedside manner as long as the
man knows what he’s doing. “We’re going to do another CT and EEG this week.”
“Oh, good,” I say, moving away from Brooks’s bed so they
have better access.
Delilah perches in a chair by the window, typing frantically
into her phone. If this were any other situation, I’d razz her for it. I’d tease
her about texting boys or ask if she has a hot date coming up. An ounce of
something normal would be nice right about now. More than likely, she’s
updating Daphne in Paris, keeping her abreast of every little thing going on.
The steady beeping from the machines supporting Brooks’s
life pulls me smack dab into the center of this new reality.
“You don’t have to stay here all day,” I say to my sister.
“If you want to go home after a bit, that’s okay.”
Her eyes squint, and she wrinkles her nose. “I came all the
way here from Chicago to be here, and you want me to go already?”
“No, no,” I say. “Of course I want you here. I’m just
saying, don’t feel bad if you have other things to do.”
“What’s more important than this?” She squints. “You’re
acting like he’s recovering from a ruptured spleen and he’s getting out in a
couple of days.”
Am I?
The doctor and nurse leave the room without so much as an
update. But I get it. Brenda gets all the updates. I’m not married to Brooks. Lawfully,
I can’t make any decisions about his healthcare. Legally, I have no weight.