Filfthy (26 page)

D
emi

“
D
erek’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.”

D
emi

M
y 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.”

* * *

“
Y
ou 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.

“I care about him,” I say to my sister, though it feels like a reminder to myself.

Her face wrinkles. “Where’d that come from? No one said you didn’t.”

“You said I’m acting too calm, and that implies that I don’t care. I’m telling you I care.”

She grabs a nearby magazine and flips to the middle. From here, I can tell it’s interior design related, and I’m sure Brenda left it the other day. They’ve been redecorating their Montauk estate, and Brenda treats it like a full-time job.