Page 6 of Her Name in Red
I make a noncommittal noise, something between a grunt and a hum. It seems to satisfy Celeste, who launches into another monologue about how worried she is about me, about my “new look,” as if changing my hair color is the most pressing issue in my life right now.
But I'm not really listening. My mind is back on the quad, replaying the moment when Riggs' eyes locked onto mine. The way he looked at me.
I remember the whispers that followed me across campus. “Bloody Mary,” they called me. As if I'm some urban legend, some creepy story told at slumber parties to scare little girls. But I'm not a legend. I'm flesh and blood, even if I feel hollow inside.
The curse. That's what they think I am now. A curse on this town, on anyone who gets too close. They're not entirely wrong.
Celeste is still talking, her voice a constant drone in the background. She's moved on to my grades now, lamenting how I've “let myself go” academically. As if that matters. As if any of this matters.
I take a sip of my drink; the ice long since melted. The watered-down liquid tastes like nothing on my tongue. Everything tastes like nothing.
“He wasn't perfect, but he was still my husband.” The words hang in the air, poisonous and suffocating. I feel my chesttighten, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The room starts to spin, memories flooding back in a nauseating rush.
The words hit me like a slap across the face. I freeze. Did she really just say that? My mind reels, struggling to process the sheer audacity of her statement.
Celeste's voice cuts through the haze, dripping with condescension. “You don't have to act so tragic, Maren.”
Something inside me snaps. The chair scrapes against the hardwood floor as I stand up, the sound echoing in the too-quiet dining room. I move slowly, deliberately; it reminds me of how I used to move during cheer practice when we were learning a new routine. My body feels like it's on autopilot, disconnected from my racing thoughts.
I can feel my lips curling into a smile, but it's not a happy expression. It's feral, dangerous.
Celeste leans back in her chair, her eyes widening. I can see the fear creeping in, replacing her usual look of disdain and disappointment. Good. She should be afraid.
“Maren,” Celeste says, her voice trembling slightly. “What are you doing?”
I don't answer. Instead, I reach out and trail my fingers along the edge of the table. They come to rest on the handle of my steak knife. The metal is cool against my skin, familiar in a way that should probably disturb me.
“He wasn't perfect?” I finally say, my voice low and eerily calm. “Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night, Mom? That he wasn't perfect, but he was still your husband?”
Celeste swallows hard, her perfectly manicured nails digging into the arms of her chair. “Maren, please. You're overreacting. I didn't mean?—”
“Do you want to know what your not-so-perfect husband did to me?” I ask, taking another step closer. “Do you want me to tell you in detail? Or do you already know and just don't care?”
Celeste shakes her head, her perfectly styled hair coming loose. “Maren, please. You're not well. We can get you help?—”
I laugh, and the sound is harsh and bitter. “Help? Now you want to help me? Where was this help a year ago? Two years ago? Five?”
Celeste's eyes dart between my face and the knife, her perfectly painted lips trembling. “Sweetie, please. Just…just put the knife down. We can talk about this.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I snarl, my patience finally snapping. The words come out in a low, dangerous growl that I barely recognize as my own voice. “Shut the fuck up before I do to you what I did to Luke.”
Celeste's face goes white, all the blood draining away. She lets out a nervous laugh, high-pitched and brittle. “You...you don't mean that. You wouldn't.”
I lean in close, close enough to see the fine lines of fear etched around her eyes, hidden beneath layers of expensive makeup. “Wouldn't I? You have no idea what I'm capable of, Mom. No fucking clue.”
My free hand comes to rest on the back of Celeste's chair, effectively trapping her. She shrinks back, trying to put as much distance between us as possible without actually getting up. Smart move. I'm not sure what I'd do if she tried to run.
I lean in closer, my breath hot against Celeste's ear. “You know what Uncle Matteo is capable of, don't you? He'll make you disappear so cleanly, it'll be like you ran off to Tahiti for a wellness retreat and just decided to stay.”
I can feel Celeste's body trembling beneath my hand. Her nails dig deeper into the chair's fabric, leaving little half-moon indents.
“Get out, Maren,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.
I pull back slightly, studying her face. The perfect mask of the society wife is crumbling, revealing the terrified womanbeneath. Her mascara is starting to run, leaving faint black tracks down her cheeks. It reminds me of the time I found her crying in the bathroom after one of Dad's “business trips.” I was twelve then, still naive enough to try and comfort her except Dad never made it back home.
“Mm,” I hum, tapping the flat of the knife against my palm. “That's what I thought.”
I straighten up, letting the knife clatter onto the table. The sound makes Celeste flinch, and I can't help but smirk. How the tables have turned.
