Page 118 of Worse Than Wicked
As I look around at the stricken faces left, though, there’s no joy to be found in victory. Crystal sits on the floor between Devlin’s feet, looking exhausted and puffy, while he rubs her shoulders. Beside his cousin, Preston sits on the couch, whileDolly sits on the floor next to Crystal, patting her leg and offering comforting words. At the end of the sectional, Eliza sits draped over King’s lap next, murmuring to him and stroking his cheek. Harper is squeezed into the loveseat with Royal, both of them glassy-eyed with grief and alcohol but secure in each other. Baron sits alone in an armchair, an untouched drink in one hand.
In my pocket, I curl my fingers around the bottle I found at Christmas. I’ll never use it, but I keep it as a reminder. Dahlia is real. I’m not crazy. Someone loved me, and not just the boy I bewitched, ensnared in my web, and wrapped up like a precious gift. It’s what I wanted from the very first day he spoke to me, when I knew he truly saw me, saw that I was different and came closer instead of running away. That was when I knew that he was special. And now he’s mine forever.
I shiver at the thought.
Gloria pats the sofa next to her, scooting down so Colt can join her. I watch my boyfriend watching her boyfriend move across the room to her. I watch him set his drink down with a little more force than necessary. He grabs me and drags me down on his lap, his grip on my hips bruising, as if he’s punishing me for the crimes I haven’t committed instead of the ones I have. The crime of being who I am instead of what he wants.
I promise myself that I will never punish him for doing the same.
I know that ultimately it doesn’t matter. I will never really know. I can only trust his word as much as he trusts mine. Which is to say, not at all.
But I am not crazy. I will not let him make me think so. Even when I don’t know what’s real, I know that much.
And I know three things for sure.
We are both liars. We both have secrets. And neither of us will ever tell.
epilogue
Ten Years Later
“We got something special for you,” I say, setting down our daughter’s bags at the foot of the stairs. “Do you want to see now, or wait until your party this weekend?”
“Now, obviously,” she says, rolling her eyes.
She’s just started doing that, and every time it reminds me that she’s growing up, that time is passing, each day another day without him in the world, each as impossible as the last. Next week will be the ten year anniversary, each year even more inconceivable than the days, that there can be life without him. That there can be even one person living under our roof who doesn’t know the hollowness this world holds, who doesn’t feel his absence.
“Since today’s your actual birthday, we thought we’d have a celebration here at home,” Mabel says, closing the door behind us. “Just us.”
She pauses, a wistful look crossing her face, and I know she’s remembering him too.
There should be one more person in our family, one more plate at the table when we cut the birthday cake.
“Well, what’s the big surprise?” the kid asks, impatient as ever.
I wonder who she got that from. I know there’s no way to know for sure who her father is. We’re both her father. That’s what the DNA says. There’s no difference between us. We’re the same person. Sometimes I think about that. How I’m justas much him as I am myself. That makes me feel a little better somehow. To know he’s as alive as I am.
A long time ago, though, before I saw her face the first time, I decided to believe that he was her father. We get to have our daughter now, the one he always wanted. I have this piece of him here with me, someone to take care of outside of myself, a way to honor him. I have her, and me.
And I have Mabel, the girl of my dreams and sometimes my nightmares, the only woman who never bores me, forever my addiction. She’s an equation without a solution, a riddle with no answer. Even after ten years, there are parts of her I’ve never seen, doors in her mind that I can’t access. But I will die trying.
“It’s out back,” Mabel says, leading the way. “We had it done while you were at camp.”
The girl skips ahead, eager to see. For a second, she’s all long limbs and long hair, and I see someone else, the ghost of another little girl, in our hallway.
Outside, she pulls up short, gaping in shock.
“You built a castle?” she shrieks, all childlike wonder now. “For me?”
Her words knock the breath out of me, and I’m glad she’s too overcome with her own emotion to notice her parents. She launches herself off the back porch and hurtles towards it, diving inside. I hear doors opening and slamming, and then she’s on the second floor, throwing open a window and waving, grinning ear to ear.
“I think she likes it,” Mabel says. “Maybe it’ll help her stay a kid a little longer.”
It’s not easy to impress a kid who has everything she’s ever asked for, but we seem to have managed. I could never say no to her. Saying no to her is saying no to him, and I couldn’t do that. Not after I failed him in life.
In all likelihood, we’d never have known about our daughter if he were here. They never would have told us. That thought always fills me with fury, but not as much as the fury at myself every time I catch myself thinking that if I had to choose, I would have chosen him instead. She would have been happy with her adoptive family, and we would have been happy with ours. I love her more than I thought myself capable, but if it came down to never knowing she existed and having my brother back, I would still always choose him.
In every lifetime, in every timeline, I would choose him. I hope he knew that at the end.
