Page 63 of Secret Pucking Unicorn

Declan: Miranda. Answer your phone. I’m coming to your room.

My stomach plummets. I’m not going to be strong enough to stay away if I can see him, touch him.

Me: No. Don’t. Leave me alone. Why can’t you respect me? I will call hotel security.

Three dots seem to go on forever. I don’t know what kind of reply he is composing. My tears on the phone screen are magnifying random words. Love. Daisy. Please. No. The last word breaks my heart. I don’t want to tell Declan no. I love him. I want him to hold me. I want to go back to this morning before everything went wrong. Back to when someone loved me and the future I dreamed of was possible. Now everything is a nightmare.

Declan: OK.

All that time and all I get is one word. Two letters. I turn my phone to silent, grab a blanket from the closet, and curl up on the bed to cry myself to sleep. It’s over. I’m alone. Again. Always.

I have the strangest dream Mother is in my room, standing over me, speaking softly enough I can’t hear her. I know it had to have been a dream because, when I awoke from my nap, I had to unlock the door to leave my room. I don’t remember locking it, but I must have out of reflex.

“Oh good, you’re awake. Dinner will be here soon,” Mother says.

Stretching my arms over my head, my brows lower in confusion. “I thought we were going to have dinner with the Mackenzies?”

Mother sniffs. “They are having dinner together with the casino owner. We aren’t invited. We are to get whatever we want from room service. You can go downstairs and make a nuisance of yourself showing up where you’re not wanted, but I have too much pride for that.”

“Mother, I’m sure we’d be welcome. I’ll ask.”

“Miranda, you will do no such thing. We are Quinns and we do not grovel. Well, you don’t grovel when you’re with me.” She looks me up and down and sneers. “What you do on your own is your business. Goodness knows your pride is questionable, but while I’m here, you will behave with dignity and not beg for table scraps.”

Shame washes over me. Like it always does.

“Yes, Mother.” I hate myself for sounding meek, for not standing up for myself, and even more for not feeling capable of it.

“I ordered us dinner. Chicken almond stir-fry, your favorite.” There’s a knock on the door. “That must be room service.” She waves to the mug on the counter. “I made you tea. I’ll answer the door.”

She opens the door and gestures for the room service attendant—his name tag says Frederick—to push his cart in.

“Good evening, ladies.” A cheerful smile creases Frederick’s weathered face. “Shall I set you up at the table?”

Mother sweeps a hand toward the table and Frederick places two silver domed plates on the square table in front of the window overlooking the Boardwalk and Nest. I walk over with my mug of tea.

“Thank you, Frederick.” I glance at the cart. There’s nothing else on it. No dessert, no other entrees, or side dishes. I am stuck with food I absolutely hate.

Mother signs the receipt and Frederick leaves with a cheery, “Have a nice evening.”

As the door clicks closed behind me, Mother and I take our places at the table. Lifting the lids, I’m disappointed to see we both have the chicken almond stir-fry. There are almonds everywhere, like extra almonds were requested.

“I know this is your favorite, Miranda. I was thrilled to see it on the menu.” She picks up her fork. “Remember how you’d always ask for this when we’d go out to eat when we visited you at school?”

“What?” I’ve never asked for this meal, and they rarely visited me at school. The times I would see them wouldn’t be categorized as “visits.” They were dropping me off at a new school or picking me up to take me to another school. We weren’t having cozy family dinners. I wasn’t ordering chicken almond stir-fry.

Mother motions with her fork. “Eat your dinner, Miranda. It’s going to get cold.”

I pick up my fork and scrape the almonds off the best I can and spear a piece of chicken. They’re everywhere. Beyond being scattered on top, it’s like they put a layer of almond on the plate first, added the chicken stir-fry and then piled even more almonds on top. There is no way to avoid them. I take a small bite of chicken and try to control the shudder when I taste the almond slivers I couldn’t scrape off.

“What’s wrong?” Mother asks sharply.

“Nothing.” I try to surreptitiously free another piece of chicken from its almond prison.

“Don’t you like it?” Her voice is harsh, and my shoulders tense.

“I don’t like almonds,” I admit quietly, looking down at my plate.

“Since when?” she demands.

---