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.