ROYAL

by Renshaw, Winter

  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.

  Brenda steps out, her kitten heels gently scuffing the tile.

  “He’ll wake up by Thanksgiving,” Delilah says.

  “And you know that how?”

  She shrugs. “If you believe something hard enough, sometimes it comes true.”

  I point to Brooks’s machines. “I don’t think this works that way.”

  One of Brooks’s many doctors walks in, followed by a nurse rattling off stats. They hover next to a computer in the corner and then move to his bedside.

  “How’s he doing today?” I ask as they examine him.

  “We’re seeing a little bit of improvement.” The doctor’s hair is the color of pure snow and his nametag reads Ed Sanderson, MD. He seems no muss, no fuss, and he’s clearly not a fan of small talk. I could give two shits about bedside manner as long as the man knows what he’s doing. “We’re going to do another CT and EEG this week.”

  “Oh, good,” I say, moving away from Brooks’s bed so they have better access.

  Delilah perches in a chair by
the window, typing frantically into her phone. If this were any other situation, I’d razz her for it. I’d tease her about texting boys or ask if she has a hot date coming up. An ounce of something normal would be nice right about now. More than likely, she’s updating Daphne in Paris, keeping her abreast of every little thing going on.

  The steady beeping from the machines supporting Brooks’s life pulls me smack dab into the center of this new reality.

  “You don’t have to stay here all day,” I say to my sister. “If you want to go home after a bit, that’s okay.”

  Her eyes squint, and she wrinkles her nose. “I came all the way here from Chicago to be here, and you want me to go already?”

  “No, no,” I say. “Of course I want you here. I’m just saying, don’t feel bad if you have other things to do.”

  “What’s more important than this?” She squints. “You’re acting like he’s recovering from a ruptured spleen and he’s getting out in a couple of days.”

  Am I?

  The doctor and nurse leave the room without so much as an update. But I get it. Brenda gets all the updates. I’m not married to Brooks. Lawfully, I can’t make any decisions about his healthcare. Legally, I have no weight.

  “I care about him,” I say to my sister, though it feels like a reminder to myself.

  Her face wrinkles. “Where’d that come from? No one said you didn’t.”

  “You said I’m acting too calm, and that implies that I don’t care. I’m telling you I care.”

  She grabs a nearby magazine and flips to the middle. From here, I can tell it’s interior design related, and I’m sure Brenda left it the other day. They’ve been redecorating their Montauk estate, and Brenda treats it like a full-time job.

  “I don’t know, Dem. I guess I just remember how you freaked out when Royal left years ago.” She turns a page, eyes scanning an ad for rustic furniture. “I mean, you love Brooks enough to spend the rest of your life with him, and you’re just taking it all in stride. Just expected you to be falling apart a little more than you are, that’s all.”

  “Freaking out isn’t going to make him wake up. Nothing’s wrong with trying to stay strong, is there?”

  Delilah crosses her legs, shuts the magazine, and tosses it aside.

  “I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t come here to critique the way you’re acting. I’m sorry.” She places her hand on her heart. “I’m here for you. And Brooks. And I’ll be here when he wakes up, and I’ll be here when he walks you down the aisle.”

  “Thanks.” I take the seat by Brooks and slip my hand into his to see if I feel anything. His palm is warm.

  That’s all I feel.

  Warmth.

  And nothing.

  “Sometimes, I think Brooks was the universe’s answer to the whole Royal thing,” Delilah muses from the corner. She chews the inside of her lip and leans forward on her knees.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “We never knew why Royal left. But maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe you were always supposed to end up with Brooks, and had Royal stuck around, that never would’ve happened.”

  “I don’t think that way.”

  “I do.” She sits up. “Everything happens for a reason. Life is one giant row of dominoes.”

  Her analogy doesn’t satiate me. I need to know what happened. I refuse to settle for some bullshit cliché.

  “Anyway, I don’t think the powers that be would take Royal away and give you Brooks if you weren’t meant to spend the rest of your life with Brooks.”

  A bouquet of bright pink daisies rests by Brooks’s window. Not sure how I didn’t notice them before, and I’m not sure where they came from since they don’t allow flowers in the ICU rooms. I bet Brenda snuck them in. Flowers are her weakness. She loves them all. She doesn’t discriminate.

  Unlike Brooks.

  The daisies remind me of the fight we had months ago while picking wedding flowers. I wanted daisies in bright shades of oranges and yellows and pinks. Brooks said they were too basic. And cheap. He insisted on peonies, which I reminded him were out of season in February. He insisted on having some flown in from Israel to the tune of tens of thousands of dollars.

  We fought the rest of the day over the flowers.

  And the flower fight led to a fight over our wedding cake the following day. He wanted a classic white with raspberry filling, claiming it was Abbott tradition. I wanted German chocolate with coconut filling. Something offbeat and unexpected. My proposal to go every-other-tier went unaccepted.

  Looking back, that was always the way Brooks operated. He was incapable of meeting in the middle. The man wanted what he wanted, and he always seemed to get it, one way or another.

  The night of the cake fight, he apologized for being a “groomzilla” and insisted it was only because he cared and wanted our day to be perfect. His mother had already invited some five hundred guests, and that didn’t account for the Rosewood side. Brooks kissed the tops of my hands that night, apologized again, pulled me into his embrace, and described the most beautiful winter wedding I’d ever imagined.

  And I forgave him for being an ass.

  For the hundredth time.

  Like a fool.

  Chapter Eight

  Demi

  “Thanks for coming with me today.” I unbuckle my seatbelt and grab the passenger door handle of Delilah’s car before she’s shifted into park. She leaves the car idling in my driveway and turns my way.

  “Want me to go with you tomorrow?”

  “You don’t have to do that. I can get myself there. You’re welcome to stop in and see him anytime you want though.”

  Delilah puts her hand on mine. “We’re all worried about you. Mom and Dad. Everyone.”

  I’m sure.

  I put them all through quite a scare after Royal left.

  Don’t have to be in the same room as them to feel them watching, waiting for me to crumble apart again.

  “Are you eating?” she asks.

  “Of course.”

  “Why’d you throw up last night? You’re not pregnant, are you?”

  “God, no.” Thank God. “Probably stress.”

  “Mom and Dad are coming by tomorrow, I think. Derek’s coming too. He’s bringing Haven. He’s got her for the weekend.”

  There’s a glimmer of something to look forward to in all of this, and her name is Haven. My niece is my world, and I rarely get to see her ever since Derek split from his ex.

  “I don’t think they allow kids under twelve into the ICU,” I say.

  “Between all of us, we can work something out. Derek really wants to see Brooks though. I think he’s taking it harder than we realize, and that’s why he hasn’t come to visit yet.”

  An unlikely friendship spawned between Derek and Brooks the last couple of years. I blame it on a fateful golf game three Memorial Day weekends ago. They’ve been tight ever since.

  “Daphne texted me earlier,” Delilah says.

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  “She feels awful for not being able to come right away.”

  “She’ll be back at Thanksgiving.”

  “Yeah, but if anything happens to Brooks, she’ll never get to say . . .” Delilah blinks and turns away. “I don’t even want to finish that thought.”

  My head pounds, and I eye my front door. As soon as I’m behind it, I can shut out the rest of the world for a few hours. Make the day fade away with a hot bath and an Ambien. Tomorrow, I get to do it all over again. Put on my brave face. Pretend I’ve got it all figured out. Allow everyone to think I’m stronger than I’ve ever been. Ignore the flood of guilt coursing my veins every time I look at Brooks and feel resentment. And in the back of my mind, wonder when Royal’s going to show up at my door again.

  Because no matter what, that undercurrent remains.

  Chapter Nine

  Royal

  As soon as I get home, I toss Brooks’s pajamas into the garbage, where they belong. It killed me,
fucking killed me, to wear those pants.

  The scent of clean laundry fills my tiny studio above a noisy laundromat. It’s the only good thing about living in this dump. It’s like I live in the inside of a dryer. The place is perpetually warm, which works out nice in the winter, and the place always smells good, even when the floors need cleaning and the bedding’s due for a wash.

  Whipping the fridge door open, I grab a carton of milk and chug it straight from the container before putting it back. I can taste the fact that the sell-by date was yesterday.

  I grab a shower, scrubbing the scent of Demi’s white-washed house off my skin but refusing to release the image of her from my mind. Watching her from afar has never been a substitution for the real thing, but it was the only option I had. And as painful as it was to stand there and let her shoot daggers my way this morning, I hope someday she’ll understand.

  And forgive me.

  ***

  “Morning, Royal.” Pandora swipes a credit card and hands a set of Corvette keys to a middle-aged man trying desperately to pull off a cracked-leather bomber jacket. “Twenty minutes early today. What’s gotten into you? Couldn’t wait to see me?”

  “You know it.” I don’t look at her, my words dry and flat.

  I grab my work shirt from a hook behind the reception desk at Patterson Auto Body. My name is stitched across the breast in royal blue cursive thread. The very same color I’ll be painting my Challenger as soon as I get the funds saved.

  The bells on the door jingle when the customer leaves, and our parking lot sits empty.

  “We’re getting an Escalade in about an hour.” Pandora smacks a piece of neon pink bubble gum. Probably watermelon. Her tongue always tastes like watermelon. “Real bad shape. Front and back. Thing’s totaled, but the owners want to fix it anyway. Bet it’s got a huge backseat.”

  She winks.

  I punch in and glance toward the back office, where Pandora’s father sits at a computer, his classic rock turned way too loud. The man’s covered in tattoos, he served two tours of duty, and he has a smile filled with gold from one too many bar fights. That old son of a bitch is tough as nails and rough around the edges, but he gave me a job when no one else would.