Page 15 of Dirty Little Secrets
“Ashamed of you?” I ask, sitting up against theheadboard. “Why would I be ashamed of you? Look at you.” I trace the edge of her jaw. “You’re perfect.”
She shakes her head, holding back tears. “I don’t believe you.”
“Baby…”
“Take me to dinner with you tomorrow then,” she says, pleading. “Your father’s birthday dinner. Take me.”
My lip twitches. “I can’t, Alison. I?—”
“You’re ashamed of me.” Tears well up in her eyes. “Damon, I—I can’t do this anymore. I can’t sit here and wait for you.”
I cup her cheek. “Alison, no, please. I just need a little more time.”
“No.” She pulls away from me, sliding out of the bed. “I-I’ve given you all the time I could afford to waste, Damon.” She sniffles again. “I think time’s up.” She hugs herself. That should be my job. “You should leave, Damon. I-I need you to leave.”
My heart collapses into itself as her words ring in my ears, and they keep ringing and ringing and ringing until the ringing turns to sirens, and the sirens turn into flashing lights, and the pain spreads from my heart to my head to my bones until I’m back in the hospital again.
“No!” I growl, whipping the picture frame at the wall, the glass shattering upon impact. I bury my face into my hands, willing the memory back to where it belongs. “Fuck.”
The computer dings when all the updates finish, and I snap my gaze to the login screen. Maybe this is a sign. A sign that I should stop. Why pursue the failingsof history? Why crave the bitter and inevitable end that’s bound to repeat itself? I want to stop. I know I should. But…
I type my password into the login screen and pull up my inbox, her name causing a familiar ache in my chest. It hurts. But it’s the type of pain that all addicts chase. Like a high. A high that always results in a low. Always. Emery’s employment and school records fill up the computer screen, and I count down the days until I’m high again.
THE PLASTIC BOUQUET
EMERY
The long stemof the cigarette crackles and burns as I perch uncomfortably on the bathroom counter, rows upon rows of cookie-cutter houses in my peripheral. Toxic, cancerous, and liberating smoke fills my lungs, and I hold my breath as it seeps deep into my organs. I blow out the smoke, tainting my parent’s idyllic neighborhood.
Scooting over to the edge of the counter, I extend my leg and turn up the dial of the standalone fan I smuggled inside the bathroom. I’d escape through the window if I could, but last summer my father installed steel security bars on the perimeter of the bottom floor.What an idiot. Such a waste of money.It’s true. The last time Chesterfield had a B&E was in ‘78.That’sbecause no one would willingly spend more than ten minutes in this fucking town.Maybe the bars are meant to keep people in versus out.
“Emery! Honey!” Mom calls out. “Are you alright in there? Dinner’s ready!”
“Coming!” I holler back, putting out the cigarette on the side of the house and flushing the evidence down the toilet.Better spray up, bitch. Can’t have mommy finding out.I douse the room with air freshener before brushing my teeth twice and spritzing on a copious amount of perfume.
Checking my breath, I tilt my head, running my hand down my light brown sweater dress. Why did I buy this? It has no form, no shape, nothing special.You literally look like a turd. Nice. Thanks for that.Your words, not mine.
“Emery!”
“I said I’m coming!” Ignoring my inner voice, I grab my purse and head toward the dining room. The table is set with crisp white linens, catalog-ordered dishware, and a plastic bouquet centerpiece. My mother says real flowers are a waste of money. They die. These live forever. Seeing as my parents have had the same arrangement for over a decade, her point is valid. “Sorry about that.”
“When you gotta go, you gotta go,” Tom says, wiggling his brows. “No shame in that.”
Ew.“I wasn’t...” I sigh, sitting down in front of my mother. “Never mind.”
“So, Emery,” Mom dishes out the casserole ontoeveryone’s plate while Dad distributes dinner rolls, “How’s everything going at work? Tom tells us that you were recently passed up for a promotion?”
I shoot Tom a concealed glare.Fucking blabbermouth. “I wasn’tpassed up,” I state, digging my knife into the butter dish. “I withdrew my application.”Liar.
“You withdrew it?” Tom asks, frowning. “But you said?—”
“Butter anyone?” I ask, aggressively grabbing the dish and holding it over the table. “Hmm?”
“You withdrew it?” Dad asks.
“Watch the butter, Emery,” Mom comments at the same time. “Remember what the doctor said, right?”
God help me.I think you’re on your own with this one, babe. Breathe. A topic change is needed. A-fucking-SAP. “I saw a moving truck on the way up here. New neighbors?” Yes. A safe segue. Shine the spotlight away. Always away. “Are they nice?”
