Filfthy (40 page)

D
emi

I
’m wrapped
in twisted sheets the next morning. Royal is passed out beside me, his masculine musk invading my lungs.

Nothing got packed last night.

We were a little . . . preoccupied.

The alarm clock on my bedside table gives off a shrill ring at six in the morning. My eyes hurt so badly and refuse to open, but I don’t have a choice. I reach over and silence that annoying little thing. It’s one of those vintage looking ones that don’t have a snooze button, or else I’d tell it to shut up for at least another eight minutes.

Sliding out of bed, I tiptoe downstairs to where the empty cardboard boxes line my counters. Fishing around in the junk drawer, I pull out a permanent marker and start labeling them.

I don’t have much, really.

My clothes and shoes.

Some toiletries.

Some artwork painted by my sister, Daphne. Some family photos that do
not
include Brooks.

I don’t own as much as a single piece of furniture in this house. None of what I had before was good enough for this house. Brooks made me sell it all on Craigslist for a fraction of what it was worth.

The tromping sound of Royal coming down the stairs puts a smile on my face.

“Good morning.” I move toward the coffeemaker, grabbing a white mug off a nearby hook and pouring him a cup.

“Morning, Dem.” He takes it from me, kissing the side of my face, and hopping up on the ledge of the counter. The morning sunlight paints his chiseled body in a warm glow, capturing his natural tan and highlighting the sleeve of tattoos covering his right arm.

“What time do you have to be at work?” I ask.

“Not until one,” he says. “I’m working the late shift today so I can help you pack.”

“Thank you.” I pour myself a cup and palm the mug in my hands, admiring the gentle sweetness of this moment.

Everything about being with him again feels natural. It’s as if the war that had been waging within me for nearly a decade has taken a breather. My heart is tired. My head is tired. And being with him brings a brand new sense of calm and completeness I never expected to feel.

“Where are you going to live?” His forehead crinkles when he takes a sip of the steaming black coffee, and he’s so fucking adorable.

“With my parents. For now.” I roll my eyes. I’m not proud of being twenty-five and completely and temporarily dependent on my parents, but it’s not like any of this was my choice. “I’m looking for a new job, but it’s kind of hard to find teaching gigs in the middle of the school year. Once I find something, I’ll move out.”

Royal’s expression falls, and I know what he’s thinking.

Me living with my parents doesn’t bode well for us getting to know each other all over again. They’ll never allow him over, at least not without a lot of pleading and convincing, and even then, who knows?

“I know this is going to sound completely insane,” he says. “But . . .”

“No, I’m not going to move in with you.” I stop him before he has a chance to even suggest something that ludicrous. “I appreciate the offer though.”

“I just want to be able to see you,” he says. “Any time I want. And maybe it’s selfish of me, but I don’t want to drive through Rixton Falls on my way home every night and know that you’re a few miles away and completely inaccessible to me.”

I move toward him, placing my palm against his chest.

“I’ll come to you,” I say. “We’ll meet at your place.”

There’s a hint of relief in his softened stare, and he runs his hands through his messy locks. There must be leftover product in them, because they stay where he leaves them. No wonder his hair always smells amazing.

I smirk at the idea of Royal primping and preening in front of a mirror every day. He always was a pretty boy. Pretty eyes and a pretty smile to contrast with his masculine, chiseled features.

“Your parents aren’t going to like this, you know,” he says. “You running off every night to be with me.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not seventeen anymore,” I say. “They can’t tell me who to be with.”

“So you’re
with
me?” The left corner of his mouth rises until a dimple centers his cheek.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Then what was last night?”

“Last night was just . . . sex.”

“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about what you said.”

“Oh?” I hide my smile with my coffee mug. Heat sears my cheeks when I think about how I told him I loved him last night. I’d wanted to say that to him since the second I saw him again last week. But I also wanted to slap him that night too. I’m a confused girl, and I’m going through a lot, so I can’t be held responsible for the crazy shit that falls out of my mouth half the time.

“You said you loved me.” He sips his coffee. “Did you mean it?”

I exhale, staring out the kitchen window above the sink behind him.

“I’m always going to love you, Royal,” I say with a sigh. “When I’m ninety years old, on my death bed and looking back on my life, you’re probably going to be in the forefront of my mind. You have this permanent place in my heart, and I can’t shake the feelings I have for you no matter what I do.”

He studies me, listening to my words with devastating intensity, like his life depends on them.

“And I’ve enjoyed these last two weeks with you,” I say. “Despite everything that’s going on right now, you’ve been this unexpected rock for me, and I appreciate it. And I love the way you make me forget about everything, even if it’s temporary. But if you take away all of that, you and I are still a couple of strangers who loved each other once upon a time.”

He blows a held breath and glances away.

“So no, Royal. I’m not
with
you. And I’m not going to move in with you. But I do want to keep seeing you,” I say carefully. “I have a lot of hurt. A lot of questions. And I have a lot of healing to do yet. And looking at you, I think you do too.”

Our eyes meet, and my hand runs down his rippled abs until it finds his. He takes mine, threading our fingers.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “I want you to know that. I’m never leaving you again. Not unless you want me to. And when you’re ninety years old, lying on your deathbed, I don’t want you thinking about what we once had when we were kids. I want you to think about the beautiful life we had together. Because I want that with you. I want us to spend our whole lives together. I can’t imagine being with anyone else but you, Demi. And if you decide I’m not what you want, if we go our separate ways, even if I find someone else someday, you should know that I’ll never love her half as much as I love you.”

“Royal.” My hand lifts to my chest. No one’s ever loved me the way he has, and I don’t think anyone ever will.

“Fine,” he says. “You’re not mine now. You’re not with me now. But someday you will be. And I’ll wait, because you’re worth waiting for.”

He leans down, kissing the top of my head, and I burrow into the crook of his warm, bare shoulder.

“You really love me, don’t you?” I ask.

“You’re the only thing I’ve ever loved.”

D
emi

M
om’s
rolled sleeves are covered in flour dust as she rolls a piecrust on the kitchen island Thanksgiving morning.

“Look who’s up,” Daphne teases, peeling and slicing apples by the sink. She got in from Paris a couple of days ago, and I’ve been spending as much time with her as I can, balancing my nightly visits with Royal with catching her up to speed.

Daphne confided in me last night about her French lover. He was almost twice her age, and Mom and Dad would flip if they knew. Although she only spent a semester away, it’s like she came back years older and wiser, and she wants to go back for another semester. Her lover has the hookup for a graduate residency at a centuries-old art museum in the south of France, but I have a hunch she mostly wants to go back to see him.

My sister was surprisingly unfazed by and at the same time supportive of the Royal reunion, and she wants to see him before she goes back to school after break.

“Late night?” Daphne winks when Mom’s not looking, and I lift my fingers to my lips to shush her. It feels like we’re back in high school again. It always somehow seemed like Daphne was the one covering for me when I’d sneak downstairs into Royal’s room at night.

I’m twenty-five, and they can’t control who I spend my time with, but I don’t think they’d appreciate me sneaking in the house at one in the morning most nights. And no matter my age, they can always pull the “my house, my rules” card, and there wouldn’t be a damn thing I could do about it.

“Demi, sweetheart, why don’t you roll up your sleeves and start peeling potatoes?” Mom asks. “I’ve got a five pound bag over there. Peeler’s in the top drawer.”

I get to work, my heart racing in my ear when I think about dropping the news on them.

I’m not staying here for Thanksgiving dinner today.

It’ll be my first Thanksgiving without my family. Ever. And I don’t know how they’re going to take it, especially with Daphne being home from Paris for the first time in months.

Biting my lip, I drag in a slow breath and clear my throat. “I’ll help you cook today, Mom, but I won’t be staying for dinner.”

Daphne drops an unpeeled apple, brushing a wave of blonde hair from her frozen face, and Mom turns to face me.

“Since Royal’s not welcome here, I’ll be spending Thanksgiving at his mother’s house.” The collective weight of their stares prevents me from speaking another word. I need a reaction. I need to know how upset they are with me.

“His mother?” Mom asks. “Is he in touch with her?”

Her curiosity and the fact that she didn’t sweep any mention of Royal under the rug makes me hopeful. She always did have a soft spot for him.

“They reconnected.” I clear my throat. “She was there for him when no one else was.”

Mom returns to her piecrust and Daphne picks up the slick, naked apple and slices it into thin strips.

“I don’t appreciate your passive aggressive tone, Demetria,” Mom says.

“That’s not how I meant it. I was simply stating the reason they reconnected.” I run a potato under water and start peeling, nearly slicing a thin layer of skin off the side of my index finger. “Anyway, that’s where I’ll be today.”

I’m met with radio silence, and when I turn around, I see Mom staring to the side, lost in thought. I don’t want to upset her, but it’s not right that Royal’s intentionally excluded without so much as an attempt to see the kind of man he’s become.

“Well.” Mom clucks her tongue, dusting off her hands and moving toward the stove where some pumpkin pies are cooling. “Be sure to take a pie. You can’t show up empty-handed.”

R
oyal

“
W
hat are you doing here
, Demi?”

The love of my life stands on the other side of my door, a covered pie in hand and a warm smile on her face.

“Surprise.” She grins, her shoulders shrugging. “I’m spending Thanksgiving with you today. And your mom.”

I move aside, and she steps into my apartment, setting the pie on the ledge of the counter.

“When did you decide this?” I pull her into my arms, resting my hands on the curve above her hips.

“On the drive home last night.” She inches on her tiptoes to meet my kiss.

It kills me, but I know Demi is not my girlfriend. We’re not together. She makes it perfectly clear anytime I ask.

But she kisses me like she loves me. She looks at me like she loves me. And she says she loves me.

I’ll take real love over some stupid formality any day of the week.

“You ready to meet Mona?” My lips inch into an apprehensive smirk. “She’s like the anti Bliss Rosewood, just so you know. She’s everything your mother . . . isn’t.”

“That’s okay,” she says. “Not everyone has to be Bliss. Not everyone
can
be Bliss.”

I glance at Demi and smirk, shaking my head. “All right. Let me throw my coat on. Let’s go introduce you to Mona Lockhart.”

* * *

I
don’t warn
her before we get there. I don’t tell her that Mona’s house smells like death warmed over or that she’s probably going to end up doing most of the food prep because Mona can hardly walk across the room without losing her breath. I don’t warn her that Mona’s speaking voice is comparable to anyone else’s yell or that sometimes she decides not to wear her teeth, and it makes her lips cave in in a really weird way. I don’t warn her that Mona tends to rub people the wrong way with her blunt honesty, and she doesn’t have a clue she’s doing it half the time.

I don’t warn her because none of it matters.

Mona is who she is, and I’m not responsible for that.

“Hey, Mona.” I knock before peeking my head through her front door. Immediately, I’m smacked in the face with the overpowering scent of black cherry candles.

Huh.

She must’ve cleaned today.

That’s a good sign.

“Come on in, baby,” she calls back. “I’m in the kitchen.”

Huh. Another good sign.

“What are you making? I told you I was bringing dinner.” I stopped by the grocery store on the way here, picking up their $39.99 Thanksgiving feast-for-four. Ham, rolls, scalloped potatoes, and green bean casserole for forty bucks. And no dishes to wash. Can’t beat that.

“Oh, just whipped up some side dishes.” Her back is to us, but she’s standing over the stove. Her fist is bunched into the flesh of her hip and she’s favoring one foot. Her cane leans against one of the cupboards, waiting on standby.

“Mona, I’d like you to meet Demi,” I say.

She whips around, her jaw hanging. She’s got her teeth in, so that’s a relief. Mona’s fingers flit around her thin, dark hair. Wiry wisps framing her face are slicked back behind her ear as she takes Demi in from head to toe.

“My, my, Royal. You didn’t tell me you were bringing anyone.” Mona arches an eyebrow. She’s not smiling, but she doesn’t mean anything by it. This is how she is.

“I hope you don’t mind.” Demi steps forward, offering up her pumpkin pie like a sacrifice. “Royal and I recently reconnected, and I wanted to spend the holiday with him this year.”

Mona clucks her tongue and releases a loud breath. She doesn’t take the pie.

“Demi, you say?” she asks. Mona turns to me. “This that Rosewood girl you used to run around with?”

I chuckle. “Yes, Mona. This is Demi Rosewood. Her family was very good to me growing up.”

She huffs. “Yeah, until they weren’t.”

Demi blushes, looking away.

I’d almost venture to guess that Mona is slightly jealous of Demi, which I find hilarious. But it makes sense. Mona’s had my attention all to herself for the last seven years. And she knows how much I love Demi.

Sighing, I take the pie from Demi’s hands and sit it on the counter along with the bags of food. Mona will fall in love with Demi once she gets to know her. No doubt in my mind.

“What kind of pie did you bring?” Mona asks, smacking her gums.

“Pumpkin, ma’am,” Demi says.

Mona cocks her head sideways. “Thank heavens. If you’d have said rhubarb or something crazy, I’d have had to show you the door.”

I mouth, “she’s joking” to Demi, and Demi mouths back, “I know.”

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Demi leaves my side and goes to Mona, placing her hand on her back. “I’d be happy to take over. I love to cook, and I don’t get to nearly as much as I used to these days.”

Mona looks at me, then at Demi, thinks for a moment, and then reaches for her cane.

“Sure,” Mona says. “Have at it. I’m gonna go watch my stories. Holler if you need anything.”

My mother waddles back to the living room, plopping down in the middle of the worn out sofa and taking a moment to catch her breath. She squints at the TV and flips channels, banging the remote against the coffee table when the buttons jam.

“That’s your mom, huh?” Demi whispers with a smile.

“Biological mother, yes,” I say slowly. “That’s Mona.”

“You have her eyes.”

“And nothing else.” I’ve been told I look exactly like my father, but my memories fail me. Last time I saw him I was five. Or so I’m told. He was an over-the-road truck driver who died of a massive coronary in the middle of hauling a load from New York to Nebraska.

I open Mona’s cupboards in search of clean plates and set the table as Demi peruses the stove situation. Two pans of some gelatinous concoctions bubble and boil, and the timer on the microwave signals that some dish in the oven is finished.

How Mona conjured up the energy to put all this together is beyond me. Half the time, she can barely take the time to microwave a Hot Pocket or two.

“Oh, Royal,” Mona calls out, muting her TV. “Set a fourth place.”

“Four?” I call back, scratching the side of my temple. “Who else is coming?”

Our eyes meet from across the house, and I wait.

“Don’t hate me,” she says. “But I invited Misty.”

My blood reaches a frenzied boil beneath my skin, and for a minute, I can’t see straight. Everything’s blurry. Everything’s a shade of crimson. If Demi weren’t here, I’d fucking lose it. I’d walk right out and never come back here again.

Mona knows how I feel about Misty, and for the last seven years, I thought Mona felt the same way.

It takes all the energy Mona has to get back up from the couch, and she limps through the sagging floor of the dining room back to the bustling kitchen.

“It’s the holidays, Royal,” she says. “And Misty just lost the love of her life. She’s homeless. Been staying at some women’s shelter. And she’s trying to get clean.”

“Or so she says,” I spit back.

“It’s time,” Mona says. “It’s time to forgive. To let go of the past and move forward.”

Demi stands at the stove, her back toward us. She’s not a part of this conversation, but I’m sure she’s very much tuned in.

“It’s going to be fine,” Mona says. “Deep down, Misty has a good heart. She just needs us to remind her.”

Misty does
not
fucking have a good heart. In fact, I’m quite positive she doesn’t have a heart at all. Nobody with a heart would’ve done half the shit she did. Someone with a heart is capable of feeling remorse. Guilt. Shame.

Misty feels nothing.

My body shakes, my fists clenched at my sides. I’ll try my hardest to remain cordial today, but only for Demi’s sake. Demi did not sacrifice her Rosewood Thanksgiving for a Lockhart Shit Show.

As soon as the food is spread out and glasses are filled and seats are taken, a cold gush of air and the gentle shutting of the front door ushers in a demon from hell.

Misty’s hair is a freshly dyed platinum blonde, washed for once, and pulled into a low ponytail. A thick layer of makeup hides the meth scabs around her mouth, and she’s dressed in enough layers to camouflage her bag of bones body.

Her eyes are brighter though. And she’s less fidgety.

“Hi, Mom. Happy Thanksgiving.” Misty wraps her arms around Mona, and I silently hate that she calls her “Mom.” It’s as if she’s in a better place emotionally, and I know that’s not true. Mona was never a mom to us.

Not to mention the fact that Misty can so easily disregard the past lights a fire so deep within me that I have to look away for a second and gather my thoughts.

Demi slides into the chair next to me, reaching beneath the table and taking my hand. She doesn’t say anything, but clearly she notices my discomfort. I may have mentioned Misty to Demi once or twice in the past, but only briefly. We were always placed in separate foster homes growing up, but with Misty being four years younger, I’d always felt extra protective of her. She was the only real family I had. We were in the same boat. As her big brother, it was my job to come running when she needed something.

But no good deed goes unpunished.

“Hi, Misty. I’m Demi.” Demi reaches her hand across the table and smiles, shaking Misty’s dry, cracked-skin hand.

“You Royal’s girlfriend?” Misty asks. She hasn’t dared to look at me since she stepped in.

“We’re old friends,” Demi says. “We go back a lot of years.”

“Ah.” Misty quickly glances my way, then back to Demi. She knows damn well that her lie cost me Demi, but knowing Misty, she’s probably feeling a little less guilty now that she sees us together. That’s how she thinks. She justifies fucking everything all of the time so she doesn’t have to feel an ounce of guilt or pain or suffering.

“It’s good to have you here, Misty.” Mona smiles at my sister. “How’s the methadone treatment going?”

“Good days and bad.” Misty shrugs and starts diving into the food, loading up her plate with more food than could possibly fit in the stomach of a girl her size. She acts like she hasn’t eaten in days. “Eight days clean.”

“Well that’s great,” Mona says. “Keep it up, Misty. Real proud of you.”

Mom doesn’t understand how the drug addicted work. Her greatest vices are food and slot machines. Misty will lie and tell everyone what they want to hear. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if Misty had gotten lit before hopping on the bus to come here.

We finish our meal in silence, Demi trying her best to make small talk with Mona and Misty. And me? I don’t even try. I don’t even taste the food I shovel into my mouth. It’s all I can do to keep from watching the clock above the fridge.

The minutes drip by, each one slower than the one before.

As soon as we’re finished eating, Demi slices and serves the pie and starts cleaning the kitchen. Mona doesn’t stop her, doesn’t tell her she doesn’t need to do it, and Misty doesn’t offer to help.

I slide out from behind the table and fill the sink with warm, soapy water. Side by side, we wash dishes in silence. When we’re done, the place looks better than it ever has. The counters sparkle and the sink shines, and all dishes and utensils are placed in their rightful places.

Demi is her mother’s daughter.

“We should probably head out,” I announce when we’re done.

Mona and Misty stop their chatter and stare my way.

“But you’ve only been here a couple of hours,” Mona protests, brows scrunched. If she expects me to spend another minute in the company of that white-haired heathen, she’s got another thing coming.

I came here so Mona didn’t have to be alone.

And she betrayed me by inviting the last person on earth I’d ever want to spend this day with.

“Demi needs to get back to Rixton Falls,” I lie.

She nods.

“Well, all right.” Mona groans, her breath raspy and thick. “Thanks for the pie, Demi. And good seeing you, Royal.”

Misty says nothing, she just sits there shaking like she’s coming down from some high or she’s terrified of me. Maybe both.

As soon as we’re back in my car, Demi cranks the heat and blows into her hands. We sit for a minute, letting the engine warm up, and I stare ahead at the dash.

“You okay?” Demi asks. “That was . . . intense.”

“Wasn’t expecting to see Misty today.” I press the brake and shift into drive. “Mona knows how I feel about her.”

I watch Demi from the corner of my eye. She bites the side of her mouth, studying me, and her body is leaned my way. Sliding her hand into my lap, she tucks her hand inside mine.

“I’ve never seen you look at anyone like that,” she says.

“Like what?”

“With such . . . hatred in your eyes.”

I nod. I’m not sure what she wants me to say, but I’m not about to deny the fact that I hate my sister. I hate what she did. I hate what she’s done. I hate everything about her self-centered, ugly little heart.

“I need to get gas,” I say, changing the subject.

We pull into a little Conoco station on the corner of Glidden’s main drag. It’s one of the few places open today, and it’s packed. Cars pull up, frantic husbands run out with random gallons of milk and cartons of eggs, stressed travelers refuel their mini vans, and tired toddlers throw tantrums as their parents pop a new DVD into their rear entertainment systems.