Page 8 of Devil's Work: Dark

She smiles hugely at me, the kind of smile that lights up her entire face, and I realize just how much I’ve missed her. “After this weekend,” she says, “you’ll get tired of steak.”

It’s a nice thought.

“Come on.” She directs me deeper into the apartment. “I’ve got margaritas and a taco spread with your name on it. Put your bag in the spare bedroom. Second door on the left. First is the bathroom.”

Her rooms are massive by apartment standards. Living room, dining room, two bedrooms, two bathrooms—one in her room. Tall ceilings. Gorgeous kitchen. Again, the cabinets are modern teak with brushed chrome pulls.

She has a salt-rimmed icy margarita in a glass as big as my head waiting for me.

Talk about a total splurge. I haven’t had alcohol since the night Lacy was conceived.

We fix our tacos—I choose flour tortillas, add beans and rice to my plate, then we carry our dinners and drinks to her sofa.

We’re all about the fun and giggles, reliving some of the better times in our lives while watching a marathon of ’90s teen rom-coms that she now owns on Vudu. We’d walked to the library every day one summer and checked out their movies, which consisted of horror movies that we hadn’t been old enough to check out, and rom-coms. I still hold a place in my heart for those campy movies today. Apparently, so does Dela.

Being with my sister, it’s like old times.

We stay up well past two getting snockered, then we each stumble to our beds. My bed is like lying on a cloud and I drift off almost as soon as my head hits the pillow.

I wake to a feeling of joyful contentedness, despite the massive hangover—all the joyful contentedness.Every bit the world has to offer, so long as I continue to lay down. I swear I’ve slept in hotel beds that weren’t this comfortable. It’s like being on vacation. I can hardly believe she gets to live like this all the time.

When she finally gets me out of bed, meaning I have to make my body vertical once again, I severely regret my life choices that led me to this point. She has pills for the headache and coffee.

“God, I love you,” I murmur into my mug made exactly as I drink it—or used to drink it—with Snickers-flavored creamer.

She snickers. “Are you talking to me or the coffee?”

“Mostly the coffee, but slightly you.”

Dela laughs harder. “I’ve got food waiting at the table for you.”

“I don’t know,” I start to say, but she holds her hand up.

“It might’ve been a while since you’ve gotten to let loose, but girl, search your memories. You know you’ve got to soak up that alcohol.”

“Search my memories? Who are you, Darth Vader?”

She shoves my shoulder. “I think that’sfeelings, babe.”

“I have no clue. But don’t make me search anything.”

She then pulls on my nightshirt to get me moving.

We enjoy breakfast out on the patio. The pancakes do help soak up the alcohol. I call Miss Mable to check on the kids and talk to Ty, then we hang out by the swimming pool for a few hours. We lunch on the leftover taco spread that we turned into decidedly untraditional Chimichangas. And for dinner we have DoorDash deliver us these decadent, drippy, juicy burgers on brioche buns and homemade steak fries.

A day full of doing absolutely nothing. I’m in heaven.

At about 7:30 we decide to start getting ready. It’s well past the dinner hour unless you’re in Spain or somewhere like that, but she assures me that we’re going to be right on time. I trust her. Ridiculously rich people are rarely known to keep the same hours as us working folks. I brought black slacks and a white button-down to wear because that’s what most of these catering companies like their employees to wear. But Dela brings me a dress. A short, tight dress. And heels.

“How am I supposed to serve in this?” I ask.

She waves her hand in the air, brushing away my words. “This is what my employer likes us to wear. Trust me, it’ll be worth it.”

I have no reason not to trust my sister, despite the niggling in the back of my head telling me this is weird. I squeeze my body into the dress. Dela paints my nails, fingers, and toes. She uses expert makeup skills I didn’t know she had until now, making me appear ten years younger and I’m only twenty-five. Finally, she curls, finger-combs, and fluffs my hair until I look exactly as she wants me to look. She makes herself over too. My dress is black, tight around the hips, has flowy sleeves, and deep cleavage while Dela wears spaghetti straps and multi-colored sparkles.

“You sure this is how we’re supposed to show up?”

“Yes,” she sighs. “Let’s go.”

---