Filfthy (30 page)

Delilah reaches across the table, placing her hand on mine. I wonder if it’s a technique they taught her at school, in her counseling classes. I love my sister, and I know she’s going to make a great therapist someday, but right now, she’s annoying the piss out of me.

“Demi.” She says my name softly and calmly. Her eyes study me, like she’s psychoanalyzing me. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

“Stop. Stop, stop, stop.” I drag my hand out from under hers. “Don’t go in shrink-mode. Just go back to being my sister. I like that version of you better. This one freaks me out.”

“Fine.” Her hands fly, palms out. “You want me to be real with you? Stop entertaining anything having to do with Royal.”

My jaw hangs. She knows damn well I need this closure. She knows more than anyone.

“You’re engaged. Do you realize how bad this looks? The entire town of Rixton Falls is upset about Brooks. People are rooting for him. Donating money. There are prayer circles every night at St. Andrews. Did you know that? And there’s a charity auction next weekend. The Rixton Falls Herald has a special page on their website dedicated to updates on Brooks.” Delilah tilts her head. “If people see you hanging out with Royal while your future husband lies comatose, they’re going to talk. The Rixton Falls rumor mill is alive and well. They’re thirstier than ever, and it’s been a long time since they’ve had anything this juicy to talk about.”

“I just want to keep him around long enough to find out what happened. I have no intention of doing anything remotely inappropriate.”

“Doesn’t matter what your intentions are. All that matters is how it looks from the outside. No one gives a damn about the truth, Demi. Not when a version of the truth is ten times more entertaining.”

“I’m not disagreeing with you. And I know you’re not wrong,” I say. “But I
have
to know what happened seven years ago. I have to know why he left. I’m not shutting him out until I get my answer.”

“Does it matter?” Her frankness hurts. “After all this time, does it really even matter? Life moved on. It moved on without him. Your life is over there now.” She points toward the hall that leads to the corridor housing Brooks’s room. “Brooks Abbott is your life now.”

I have to tell her.

She has to know.

I need someone on my side.

I can’t do this alone anymore.

“Brooks . . .” I pull in a deep breath, summoning enough strength to say this out loud for the first time.

“Oh, there you are, sweetheart.” Brenda Abbott strides our way. I suddenly feel guilty about sitting here coloring with my sister and niece. She’s oblivious. Or at least she’s not judging. I love Brenda. She would’ve made the best mother-in-law. “Your parents and Derek are on their way out.”

We both stand.

“Come on, Haven. Put the toys back.” Delilah takes her chubby hand.

“The doctors said the EEG they ran on Brooks last night shows promise. There’s activity there. And the swelling is subsiding.” Brenda’s face lights with the smile of a hopeful mother. “They’re going to bring him out of sedation soon.”

She calls it sedation because she can’t bear to call it what it really is: a medically induced coma. Sedation sounds more hopeful, like he was simply put under for a routine procedure.

“That’s . . . that’s great.” I hug her. And I’m happy. Brooks might be a cheating asshole, allegedly, but he doesn’t deserve to die for it.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Brenda pulls away, dabbing the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand. “Delilah, did you hear?”

Brenda gushes to my sister, but I tune them out. I see Brenda’s arms flailing and Delilah jumping for joy. They hug and cry. We weren’t even married yet, and already our families had begun to intertwine.

Subtract the doubts and the fears and the lies and the cheating . . . we might’ve had a beautiful little life together.

Delilah loops her arm around my shoulder. “Told you everything was going to work out.”

R
oyal

F
ucking mailman
.

I step on a stack of mail, the bottom of my boots leaving clumps of melting snow that leave the envelopes soggy within seconds.

There’s a set of mailboxes on the main floor, in the back of the laundromat, but the key rarely works, so he insists on shoving mine beneath the bottom of the door. The landlord says it’s the Postal Service’s issue. They say it’s his. I’m the one who suffers.

I pick the soggy mail up from the dirty floor and slap it on the counter.

And then I notice it. Just the corner. Sticking out from the middle of the pile.

The return address reads “State of New York—Board of Parole.”

Within seconds, I’m ripping the envelope and reading the letter as fast as my eyes will allow.

I’m discharged.

I’m finally. Fucking. Discharged.

I’d frame this thing if it didn’t make me so goddamned happy and furious at the same time. Never should’ve happened in the first place, but now that I’m clear, maybe I can finally move on with my life.

Maybe Demi will give me a second chance.

* * *

“
H
ey
, Royal,” Rod Patterson calls out to me as soon as I step in the door that morning. His gaze narrows. “What’s up with you? You’re smiling. You get laid last night?”

“No, sir.” I smirk. Can’t help it.

“Yeah, fucking right. Goddamn lucky bastard.” His golden grin takes up his entire wrinkled face for half a second, and I sort of feel bad about fucking his daughter all those times. “Anyway. Got something for you.”

He motions for me to follow him to his office.

“Here you go.” He hands me a personal check covered in chicken scratch.

“What’s this?”

“I’m giving you a bonus. You’ve been here a year. You’ve busted your ass. Picked up overtime when no one else wants to. You do good work. Probably one of my best. Shit, Royal, you
are
my best.” He folds his arms, tucking his tatted, meaty knuckles beneath his armpits and shrugging. “I know you’ve been saving up to paint that Challenger. This ought to cover the paint. You can use my shop and my tools after hours.”

I fold the check and stick it in my back pocket.

“Thank you, sir. Appreciate it.”

Rod waves me off. “All right. Now get to work.”

* * *

“
W
here you hurrying off to
, Royal?” Pandora tries to stop me on my way out the door at seven. “Got a hot date?”

“Something like that.”

“Aw.” She pouts and saunters around the front desk. “Can’t blame your work wife for wanting to keep tabs on you.”

“You’re not my work wife. I don’t even think that’s a thing.”

“It’s definitely a thing.” She sticks a pointed finger in the corner of her mouth. The nail’s painted black. I think she’s trying to be sexy, but it’s gross. This shop is fucking filthy, and half the men here don’t wash their hands after they piss. Pandora stands before me, her hands draped on my shoulders. “We’re the only ones here. What do you say we take five and lock ourselves in the back room? I’m wearing my favorite hot pink thong with the princess crown on it. Just for you . . .”

I take her by the wrist and guide her off of me. “Not tonight.”

And not ever again.

“Fine. Guess I’ll go back to fucking Daryl.” Pandora holds up a pinky finger and wiggles it, clucking her tongue and shaking her head. “You’d think a big guy like him would be packing. It’s a shame, really. I think that whole big hands, big feet thing is an old wives’ tale.”

“I don’t want to hear about Daryl’s cock.”

“Why? You jealous? You don’t want to think about him laying on top of me, all sweaty, his hard dick going in and out of this sweet pussy you love so much.”

“Stop. Don’t do this. You’re making yourself look pathetic.”

“You
are
jealous.”

I’m officially convinced that Pandora’s social intelligence lies somewhere at the bottom of the spectrum.

“I gotta go.” I push the front door. The chime fills the empty waiting area. “See you Monday.”

She crosses her arms and stomps her foot. Literally stomps her foot. Like a fucking toddler.

“You and Calvin have a great night.” I give her my blessing in the form of a wink and a smile.

“You’re making a mistake, Royal.”

My smile fades. “What are you talking about?”

“I know what you are. I know all about you.”

I walk out before I say something I’ll regret. I need this job more than I need to put Pandora in her place, and I refuse to explain a damn thing to that fucking bimbo and whatever the hell it is she thinks she knows.

R
oyal

“
Y
ou didn’t text
me what you wanted.” I stand at Demi’s door at nine o’clock at night with a bag of takeout from a local diner in my hand.

She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t seem excited to see me. Tousled, dark hair hangs in her face, and she seems out of it. The Demi standing before me isn’t the same Demi that brought me coffee when I shoveled her drive this morning and stared at me with forgiving eyes.

“Sorry. Yeah. Come in.” She moves aside.

“Everything okay?”

I’m sure she’s getting tired of people asking.

She shuffles toward the kitchen island, where a stack of opened mail covers the pristine marble countertop. Demi buries her head in her hands and groans. Upon closer examination, these appear to be a bunch of credit card statements.

“Fucking prick,” she mutters under a blanket of dark hair. “That goddamn asshole.”

“What?” I scan the credit card statements again. They all appear to be in her name. All of them carrying balances in the tens of thousands.

“This is six figures worth of credit card balances right here.” She pops up, brushing her hair from her face and hooking her hands on her hips. “I don’t even fucking know what to think right now.”

“I’m confused.”

“Brooks,” she spits. “Brooks apparently opened one, two, three . . . eight, nine credit cards in my name. Without me knowing. They’re all maxed out.”

“Shit, Demi.”

“What the fuck do I do, Royal? I’m a kindergarten teacher. I can’t pay these off. Can’t take him to court, either, because he’s in a goddamn coma in a hospital, hibernating while I’m left here to clean up his messes. Alone.”

I move closer, placing a hand on her shoulder and massaging. She doesn’t notice, she’s so worked up. Her muscles are tense as she rattles on, and her hands make the kind of gestures you might see during rush hour on a freeway.

“You’re not alone,” I say. “You’ve got me. I’ll help any way I can.”

“What, you have a hundred and seventy thousand dollars lying around?”

I laugh. “Hardly.”

“Guess I’ll be filing for bankruptcy.” With one sweeping gesture, all the statements go flying, soaring through the kitchen and landing gracefully on the floor. “That was meant to be more dramatic.”

Demi buries her face again, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms.

“What did I do to deserve all this?” she asks.

I don’t have an answer for her, so I stand in silent solidarity, quietly demanding that the universe ease up on this beautiful girl. She deserves a break.

Placing the bag of food on the island, I pull out two sandwiches and a carton of greasy diner fries.

“I have no idea what you eat nowadays,” I say. “It’s not seared ahi tuna or the kind of weird shit rich people eat, but . . .”

Demi rolls her eyes, biting a smirk. “I’m not rich. I told you that. I drive a Subaru, and I teach public school.”

Seeing her like this makes my chest heavy. I want to fix it. I want to see her laugh and smile.

I want to see her look at me like she did this morning.

“Hey, remember that time we had a picnic by Meyer’s pond? It was late October, and it started snowing out of nowhere. We tried to stick it out, but I couldn’t stand watching you shiver like that, so we took it home and had a picnic by the fireplace at your parents’ place,” I say.

“Yeah? What about it?”

“You have a fireplace. Let’s have a picnic.”

“Seriously, Royal?”

“Fine. Forget I said anything. It was a lame attempt to get your mind off all this other shit.” I stare at the scattered statements around our feet.

“You’re trying to be romantic.”

Was I?

Maybe.

“For the record, I still haven’t forgiven you,” she says. “Just because you’re here, bringing me food, doing nice things for me . . . it doesn’t change anything.”

“I know. Just happy for another chance.”

“Who said anything about another chance?”

“I
mean
, like another chance to get to be in your life. Another chance for me to prove I’m not a total scumbag, and I didn’t walk out on you—on
us
. Not the way you think. At least, not on purpose.”

Our stares lock. Her stomach growls with empty echoes.

“Come on.” She gathers the food in her arms and hauls it to her impeccable living room. I yank a throw blanket from the back of a sofa and spread it in front of the fireplace as she hits the switch with a free elbow.

The fire roars to life and settles into a comfortable glow.

Sitting cross-legged across from one another, we eat in silence. The food’s cold, but it goes down just the same.

“I like your hair like that,” I say.

She runs a hand through a tangled mess of waves, brows lifting. “I look like shit. You don’t have to lie.”

“Nah, I mean the curls. You took time to do your hair today.”

She chews a small bite of cheeseburger and swallows.

“Brenda keeps springing these interviews on me,” she says. “She said something about a photographer coming to chronicle Brooks’s ordeal, but we don’t know when. He’s flying in from somewhere. Los Angeles maybe? It’s ridiculous, but that’s Brenda.”

“Not a very private woman.”

“Not. At. All.”

“She nice though?”

“Extremely.” Demi places a hand across her heart. “I love that woman. She would’ve been the best thing about marrying Brooks. The woman treats me like gold, like the daughter she never had. Can’t tell you how many shopping sprees she’s taken me on. My entire wardrobe has been paid for by Brenda and hand-chosen by a personal shopper at Saks.”

“Rough life.” I smirk.

“I never wanted those things. She insisted.” Demi places a half-finished sandwich aside and wipes her hands on a napkin. “I don’t think it’s right for anyone to carry around a bag worth more than a used car.”

Her gaze lands on mine, her shoulders slumping forward.

“I need a drink,” she says. “You want a drink?”

Before I have a chance to answer, she’s gone. Clinking and clamoring comes from the kitchen, and when she returns with two glasses filled clear to the top with white wine, it’s too late to refuse it.

I’m not much of a drinker. The conditions of my parole clearly stated I was not to conduct myself in any kind of altered state via drugs or alcohol. I snuck a random case of beer into my apartment here or there during some particularly low points in my life, but for the most part, I didn’t need to drink.

Never been a fan of feeling out of control.

I spent my entire life being out of control of most of the shit that’s happened to me. Feeling drunk, knowing I can’t leave if I have to, knowing my inhibitions are shot to shit—and the words that come out of my mouth may or may not be well-delivered—doesn’t exactly appeal to me.

I take a small sip because I don’t want her to drink alone. Shit tastes expensive.

“I feel fancy,” I tease. She smiles. I almost tease her about rich people drowning their troubles in overpriced bottles of wine, but I stop. She’s six-figures deep in that asshole’s debt, and she’s a fucking schoolteacher.

“Never used to like wine.” Demi takes a generous sip, and then her pink tongue grazes the corners of her mouth. “Started drinking it to impress Brooks. He told me common cocktails were trashy. Abbotts drink fine wines and bourbons and Scotch. Anything imported and worth more than a small country’s gross domestic product is an acceptable drink.”

“That asshole was grooming you six ways from Sunday, wasn’t he? Making you into his perfect little Stepford wife-to-be.”

She takes a drink and sets her glass on a nearby side table, rising to her feet. An assortment of family photos lines the mantle, and she grabs the ones of the two of them, gathering them into her arms.

“I can’t look at these anymore.” She carries them to the kitchen, and I heard the electronic whir of the automatic trash can, followed by metallic plinking and shattering glass as she drops them in. Demi returns, brushing her palms together as if they’re filthy. “Much better.”

She takes a seat across from me, her knees against her chest, and reaches for her wine glass.

“So what do you do?” she asks. “Where do you work? Did you go to college?” Her hand flies out before I have a chance to speak. “Not that I care. Not that we’re friends. I just feel like I need to know these little things. There are so many blanks I need to fill in. So many missing pieces.”

“I’m an auto body mechanic at Patterson Auto Body in South Fork,” I say. “Didn’t go to a four-year. Went to a trade school.”

“You dating anyone?”

Her question catches me off guard. Her brows lift as she takes another sip of her fancy wine.

“Nope,” I say. “Haven’t dated anyone since you, Demi.”

She hides a pleased smile with her glass and cocks her head. “I don’t believe that for one second.”

“You don’t have to believe it,” I say. “But it’s true.”

Her legs fall, stretching straight out, and her hand slicks against her left thigh. She hasn’t taken her eyes off me since she sat down again, and judging by her relaxed posture, she’s feeling comfortable around me.

“A guy like you? Handsome. Charming. Rugged.” Her blue gaze falls on my mouth, lingering. “I’m sure women are all over you.”

My hands sail behind my head, and I interlock my fingers and flash a shit-eating grin. Yeah, women are all over me. But I never let them get close. People talk. Word travels. The less people know about me, the better. The last thing I wanted was for information to get back to Demi before I had a chance to tell her, so I kept everyone at arm’s length. A handful of fuck buddies and a steady stream of one-night stands has been my modus operandi in recent years.

“Why are you grinning?” she asks.

“You called me handsome.”

Demi’s eyes flutter to the back of her head.

“Still cocky as ever. Glad to see that hasn’t changed.”

It’s a sad day when a twenty-six-year-old man realizes his glory days are long gone, forever memorialized in a high school yearbook. Crazy to think that some nobody foster child can show up in this cliquey small town and make a name for himself. I had more than enough friends, plenty of pussy on call, and a social life that’d make a New York playboy jealous, all at the tender age of eighteen.

But all that mattered back then was Demi.

Talking to any girl in school was a non-issue for me. I could walk up to any of ‘em and walk away with a Friday night date.

But not her.

Had to work my ass off. Drop hints. Bother her. Tease her. Watch her squirm every time I’d kick her under the dinner table at the Rosewoods.

But it was all worth it.

For eighteen months, she was mine. Completely mine.

Funny how an eighteen-month chunk of your life can feel like the only part that ever mattered.

“So you haven’t dated anyone. In seven years.” Her angled brow arches high. “Not one person.”

I pull in a quick sip from my glass, which is still mostly full, and shake my head.

“Don’t you get lonely?” she asks.

For a sec, I think about rambling on about how I never met a girl who could give me half the butterflies she gave me. But I don’t want to sound fucking lame, so I keep that shit to myself.

“Define lonely.” I’ve been alone my whole life. Mostly. Growing up in foster homes, you learn not to get too attached to anyone. The Rosewoods were the only constant in my life, but they were never really mine. I’m pretty sure Bliss just felt sorry for me, and I’m pretty sure Robert appreciated that I mostly kept Derek out of trouble.

“Now you’re dodging the question.” She stares into her empty wine glass.

“Finish mine.” I hand her my glass, and she hesitates. “Not much of a drinker.”

“Answer my question,” she demands. “Don’t you get lonely?”

I contemplate my response and regret giving away my drink, because for once, I just might need it.

“You want the truth?” I exhale. Flickering flames cast shadows on her face, highlighting the curve of her cheekbones and hiding the telltale circles under her eyes. “Fine. Since you asked. Yeah. I get lonely. But not the kind of lonely you’re probably thinking of. It’s more of a bitter kind of lonely.”

Her nose wrinkles. “Like how?”

“The kind of loneliness you feel when you watch someone else live the life you were supposed to live. When you see the only person you’ve ever given a damn about smiling and laughing and fawning over some goddamn shallow jackass who doesn’t deserve her and sure as hell won’t take his marriage vows seriously.”

I leave out all the moments I watched from afar, all those times I flipped through hundreds of images on her Facebook page. Their first year of dating was chronicled with dozens of sickeningly adorable selfies, and as the months passed, I watched them grow serious about each other, take little trips, and explore the boundaries outside the great state of New York together. From behind a computer screen, I watched as Brooks Abbott integrated into the Rosewood family with a disturbingly natural fit. I was there when he popped the question, and the day she updated her relationship status to ‘engaged,’ my heart sank hard.

Loneliness is watching the only girl you’ve ever loved find happiness in the arms of another man.

“How often did you watch us?” she asks.

“You’re making it creepier than it is,” I say. “Wasn’t like that. Your really need to lock up those social media pages. Your entire life is out there for anyone to see.”

Demi clears her throat, her gaze falling to the blanket beneath us before rising.

“Maybe that was the whole point.” Her words are stiff, low. The heat from the fireplace is distractingly hot, but I don’t feel it. I’m focusing on Demi, watching her fidget and tuck her hair behind her ear and chew her bottom lip. “Maybe all these years, I was hoping you were watching. I thought maybe if you could see how happy I was, you’d miss me as much as I was missing you.”

Her knees draw up to her chest, and she buries her face against them.

“God, that sounds so juvenile.” Her voice is muffled. She pulls herself into a standing position, fanning her face. “It’s really hot. Are you hot?”