ROYAL

by Renshaw, Winter

  “You’re in grad school. I assume it keeps you pretty busy. I know I don’t hear from you as much anymore.”

  “Aw, are you trying to guilt trip me? Because I distinctly remember your Hargrove days and going weeks without so much as a text.” Delilah grins. “You were wild back then.”

  I lift a brow, silently pleading the fifth.

  “At least until Brooks came along,” she mutters. Her eyes lift to mine. “Sorry. I forgot. No Brooks.”

  I thank her with a tight, smug smile, and she laughs. It’s easy to forget, in these small, mundane moments, the swarming chaos happening outside this little waiting area.

  “Did Royal ever show back up?” My sister stops scribbling and glances across the tiny table at me.

  Haven hops off her chair and grabs a doll. She clearly doesn’t seem to mind that it’s missing an eye, because she cradles it in her arms and gives it a kiss on the cheek. I guess that’s what you do when you love something. You choose not to see their imperfections. You look past the things you don’t want to see.

  Guess that’s why they say love is blind.

  I must have loved Brooks enough, because apparently, I was blind to his affair. There had to have been signs. I just chose not to see them.

  Is that what I’d done all these years? Looked past all those times Brooks had disappointed me or fielded my questions or thrown man-tantrums when he wanted something badly enough?

  Last Valentine’s Day, I wanted to eat at an Italian restaurant, Café Tosca. I made reservations. He cancelled them. Said he wanted Thai. I begged and pleaded. We fought. Over a fucking restaurant.

  Café Tosca is in Glidden.

  I bet that was their place.

  “Hey, I’m talking to you.” Delilah throws a broken crayon at me. “Did Royal show up again?”

  I tighten my shoulders and lick my lips. I could tell her no, and I could change the subject, but she’s my sister. She’ll see right through me.

  “Yeah,” I say. “He did.”

  “And?”

  “And.” I inhale, taking my time. “He acts like he’s sorry.”

  “Sorry for what? Did he tell you?”

  “No. He won’t tell me yet. But he says he will. He just wants to get to know each other again. He’s afraid I’m going to judge him.” I trace circles into my coloring book page, outside all the lines. “He must’ve done something horrible, Delilah.”

  “Obviously.” Her head shakes and her eyes widen. “I know you think you loved him, but you two were just a couple of kids. You didn’t even know what love was back then.”

  I stop tracing circles.

  “It’s been seven years. You’re completely different people,” she says. “Royal did something bad. Bad enough that Dad made him stay away.”

  Yeah. Our father is the only person who knows what happened. He hasn’t told my mother. Or Derek. Or me. He heard my cry myself to sleep for months and refused to give me so much as an explanation. The only thing he said to me was that anything I could possibly imagine would be a million times better than what actually happened.

  “You don’t think people can change for the better?” I ask.

  “Of course they can.” My sister’s words snip. “That’s not my point. My point is, you’ve moved on. You’re engaged to Brooks. You’re a grown woman. Your entire life is ahead of you. You don’t need to be drudging up the past, no matter how tempting it might be.”

  “I’m not drudging up the past.”

  “That’s exactly what you’re doing.” She exhales loudly. “I know you, Demi. You’ve been stuck in the past for years. You were finally moving on, and now it’s like you’re taking ten giant steps back. I see it. You don’t want to talk about Brooks. Truth be told, you don’t even act that upset about it. I worry that you’re internalizing, and that’s going to cause you to seek comfort in all the wrong places.”

  Wrong places clearly meaning: Royal.

  I throw the crayon at the tin. It hits the side and bounces off until it rolls down the table and falls to the dense carpet with hardly a sound. Not quite the statement I was trying to make.

  “How am I supposed to act? You tell me. Do you want me to cry? Starve myself? Hang out at the bars? Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. Just don’t accuse me of not being sad. This entire situation is depressing.” I huff. “In more ways than you’ll ever know.”

  Delilah reaches across the table, placing her hand on mine. I wonder if it’s a technique they taught her at school, in her counseling classes. I love my sister, and I know she’s going to make a great therapist someday, but right now, she’s annoying the piss out of me.

  “Demi.” She says my name softly and calmly. Her eyes study me, like she’s psychoanalyzing me. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “Stop. Stop, stop, stop.” I drag my hand out from under hers. “Don’t go in shrink-mode. Just go back to being my sister. I like that version of you better. This one freaks me out.”

  “Fine.” Her hands fly, palms out. “You want me to be real with you? Stop entertaining anything having to do with Royal.”

  My jaw hangs. She knows damn well I need this closure. She knows more than anyone.

  “You’re engaged. Do you realize how bad this looks? The entire town of Rixton Falls is upset about Brooks. People are rooting for him. Donating money. There are prayer circles every night at St. Andrews. Did you know that? And there’s a charity auction next weekend. The Rixton Falls Herald has a special page on their website dedicated to updates on Brooks.” Delilah tilts her head. “If people see you hanging out with Royal while your future husband lies comatose, they’re going to talk. The Rixton Falls rumor mill is alive and well. They’re thirstier than ever, and it’s been a long time since they’ve had anything this juicy to talk about.”

  “I just want to keep him around long enough to find out what happened. I have no intention of doing anything remotely inappropriate.”

  “Doesn’t matter what your intentions are. All that matters is how it looks from the outside. No one gives a damn about the truth, Demi. Not when a version of the truth is ten times more entertaining.”

  “I’m not disagreeing with you. And I know you’re not wrong,” I say. “But I have to know what happened seven years ago. I have to know why he left. I’m not shutting him out until I get my answer.”

  “Does it matter?” Her frankness hurts. “After all this time, does it really even matter? Life moved on. It moved on without him. Your life is over there now.” She points toward the hall that leads to the corridor housing Brooks’s room. “Brooks Abbott is your life now.”

  I have to tell her.

  She has to know.

  I need someone on my side.

  I can’t do this alone anymore.

  “Brooks . . .” I pull in a deep breath, summoning enough strength to say this out loud for the first time.

  “Oh, there you are, sweetheart.” Brenda Abbott strides our way. I suddenly feel guilty about sitting here coloring with my sister and niece. She oblivious. Or at least she’s not judging. I love Brenda. She would’ve made the best mother-in-law. “Your parents and Derek are on their way out.”

  We both stand.

  “Come on, Haven. Put the toys back.” Delilah takes her chubby hand.

  “The doctors said the EEG they ran on Brooks last night shows promise. There’s activity there. And the swelling is subsiding.” Brenda’s face lights with the smile of a hopeful mother. “They’re going to bring him out of sedation soon.”

  She calls it sedation because she can’t bear to call it what it really is: a medically induced coma. Sedation sounds more hopeful, like he was simply put under for a routine procedure.

  “That’s . . . that’s great.” I hug her. And I’m happy. Brooks might be a cheating asshole, allegedly, but he doesn’t deserve to die for it.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” Brenda pulls away, dabbing the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand. “Delilah, did you hear?”

&nb
sp; Brenda gushes to my sister, but I tune them out. I see Brenda’s arms flailing and Delilah jumping for joy. They hug and cry. We weren’t even married yet, and already our families had begun to intertwine.

  Subtract the doubts and the fears and the lies and the cheating . . . we might’ve had a beautiful little life together.

  Delilah loops her arm around my shoulder. “Told you everything was going to work out.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Royal

  Fucking mailman.

  I step on a stack of mail, the bottom of my boots leaving clumps of melting snow that leave the envelopes soggy within seconds.

  There’s a set of mailboxes on the main floor, in the back of the laundromat, but the key rarely works, so he insists on shoving mine beneath the bottom of the door. The landlord says it’s the Postal Service’s issue. They say it’s his. I’m the one who suffers.

  I pick the soggy mail from the dirty floor and slap it on the counter.

  And then I notice it. Just the corner. Sticking out from the middle of the pile.

  The return address reads “State of New York—Board of Parole.”

  Within seconds, I’m ripping the envelope and reading the letter as fast as my eyes will allow.

  I’m discharged.

  I’m finally. Fucking. Discharged.

  I’d frame this thing if it didn’t make me so goddamned happy and furious at the same time. Never should’ve happened in the first place, but now that I’m clear, maybe I can finally move on with my life.

  Maybe Demi will give me a second chance.

  ***

  “Hey, Royal,” Rod Patterson calls out to me as soon as I step in the door that morning. His gaze narrows. “What’s up with you? You’re smiling. You get laid last night?”

  “No, sir.” I smirk. Can’t help it.

  “Yeah, fucking right. Goddamn lucky bastard.” His golden grin takes up his entire wrinkled face for half a second, and I sort of feel bad about fucking his daughter all those times. “Anyway. Got something for you.”

  He motions for me to follow him to his office.

  “Here you go.” He hands me a personal check covered in chicken scratch.

  “What’s this?”

  “I’m giving you a bonus. You’ve been here a year. You’ve busted your ass. Picked up overtime when no one else wants to. You do good work. Probably one of my best. Shit, Royal, you are my best.” He folds his arms, tucking his tatted, meaty knuckles beneath his armpits and shrugging. “I know you’ve been saving up to paint that Challenger. This ought to cover to the paint. You can use my shop and my tools after hours.”

  I fold the check and stick it in my back pocket.

  “Thank you, sir. Appreciate it.”

  Rod waves me off. “All right. Now get to work.”

  ***

  “Where you hurrying off to, Royal?” Pandora tries to stop me on my way out the door at seven. “Got a hot date?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Aw.” She pouts and saunters around the front desk. “Can’t blame your work wife for wanting to keep tabs on you.”

  “You’re not my work wife. I don’t even think that’s a thing.”

  “It’s definitely a thing.” She sticks a pointed finger in the corner of her mouth. The nail’s painted black. I think she’s trying to be sexy, but it’s gross. This shop is fucking filthy, and half the men here don’t wash their hands after they piss. Pandora stands before me, her hands draped on my shoulders. “We’re the only ones here. What do you say we take five and lock ourselves in the back room? I’m wearing my favorite hot pink thong with the princess crown on it. Just for you . . .”

  I take her by the wrist and guide her off of me. “Not tonight.”

  And not ever again.

  “Fine. Guess I’ll go back to fucking Daryl.” Pandora holds up a pinky finger and wiggles it, clucking her tongue and shaking her head. “You’d think a big guy like him would be packing. It’s a shame, really. I think that whole big hands, big feet thing is an old wives’ tale.”

  “I don’t want to hear about Daryl’s cock.”

  “Why? You jealous? You don’t want to think about him laying on top of me, all sweaty, his hard dick going in and out of this sweet pussy you love so much.”

  “Stop. Don’t do this. You’re making yourself look pathetic.”

  “You are jealous.”

  I’m officially convinced that Pandora’s social intelligence lies somewhere at the bottom of the spectrum.

  “I gotta go.” I push the front door. The chime fills the empty waiting area. “See you Monday.”

  She crosses her arms and stomps her foot. Literally stomps her foot. Like a fucking toddler.

  “You and Calvin have a great night.” I give her my blessing in the form of a wink and a smile.

  “You’re making a mistake, Royal.”

  My smile fades. “What are you talking about?”

  “I know what you are. I know all about you.”

  I walk out before I say something I’ll regret. I need this job more than I need to put Pandora in her place, and I refuse to explain a damn thing to that fucking bimbo and whatever the hell it is she thinks she knows.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Royal

  “You didn’t text me what you wanted.” I stand at Demi’s door at nine o’clock at night with a bag of takeout from a local diner in my hand.

  She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t seem excited to see me. Tousled, dark hair hangs in her face, and she seems out of it. The Demi standing before me isn’t the same Demi that brought me coffee when I shoveled her drive this morning and stared at me with forgiving eyes.

  “Sorry. Yeah. Come in.” She moves aside.

  “Everything okay?”

  I’m sure she’s getting tired of people asking.

  She shuffles toward the kitchen island, where a stack of opened mail covers the pristine marble countertop. Demi buries her head in her hands and groans. Upon closer examination, these appear to be a bunch of credit card statements.

  “Fucking prick,” she mutters under a blanket of dark hair. “That goddamn asshole.”

  “What?” I scan the credit card statements again. They all appear to be in her name. All of them carrying balances in the tens of thousands.

  “This is six figures worth of credit card balances right here.” She pops up, brushing her hair from her face and hooking her hands on her hips. “I don’t even fucking know what to think right now.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “Brooks,” she spits. “Brooks apparently opened one, two, three . . . eight, nine credit cards in my name. Without me knowing. They’re all maxed out.”

  “Shit, Demi.”

  “What the fuck do I do, Royal? I’m a kindergarten teacher. I can’t pay these off. Can’t take him to court, either, because he’s in a goddamn coma in a hospital, hibernating while I’m left here to clean up his messes. Alone.”

  I move closer, placing a hand on her shoulder and massaging. She doesn’t notice, she’s so worked up. Her muscles are tense as she rattles on, and her hands make the kind of gestures you might see during rush hour on a freeway.

  “You’re not alone,” I say. “You’ve got me. I’ll help any way I can.”

  “What, you have a hundred and seventy thousand dollars lying around?”

  I laugh. “Hardly.”

  “Guess I’ll be filing for bankruptcy.” With one sweeping gesture, all the statements go flying, soaring through the kitchen and landing gracefully on the floor. “That was meant to be more dramatic.”

  Demi buries her face again, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms.

  “What did I do to deserve all this?” she asks.

  I don’t have an answer for her, so I stand in silent solidarity, quietly demanding that the universe ease up on this beautiful girl. She deserves a break.

  Placing the bag of food on the island, I pull out two sandwiches and a carton of greasy diner fries.


  “I have no idea what you eat nowadays,” I say. “It’s not seared ahi tuna or the kind of weird shit rich people eat, but . . .”

  Demi rolls her eyes, biting a smirk. “I’m not rich. I told you that. I drive a Subaru, and I teach public school.”

  Seeing her like this makes my chest heavy. I want to fix it. I want to see her laugh and smile.

  I want to see her look at me like she did this morning.

  “Hey, remember that time we had a picnic by Meyer’s pond? It was late October, and it started snowing out of nowhere. We tried to stick it out, but I couldn’t stand watching you shiver like that, so we took it home and had a picnic by the fireplace at your parents’ place,” I say.

  “Yeah? What about it?”

  “You have a fireplace. Let’s have a picnic.”

  “Seriously, Royal?”

  “Fine. Forget I said anything. It was a lame attempt to get your mind off all this other shit.” I stare at the scattered statements around our feet.

  “You’re trying to be romantic.”

  Was I?

  Maybe.

  “For the record, I still haven’t forgiven you,” she says. “Just because you’re here, bringing me food, doing nice things for me . . . it doesn’t change anything.”

  “I know. Just happy for another chance.”

  “Who said anything about another chance?”

  “I mean, like another chance to get to be in your life. Another chance for me to prove I’m not a total scumbag, and I didn’t walk out on you—on us. Not the way you think. At least, not on purpose.”

  Our stares lock. Her stomach growls with empty echoes.

  “Come on.” She gathers the food in her arms and hauls it to her impeccable living room. I yank a throw blanket from the back of a sofa and spread it in front of the fireplace as she hits the switch with a free elbow.

  The fire roars to life and settles into a comfortable glow.

  Sitting cross-legged across from one another, we eat in silence. The food’s cold, but it goes down just the same.

  “I like your hair like that,” I say.