“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.”
Thirty-Nine
Royal
* * *
“What 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?”