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.