84. Dollie—present day
Dollie—present day
“ I think you should get an Uber.”
“No, I’m driving.”
“Is that safe?”
“I can move my hands just fine. You must remember.”
Heat lands on my cheeks. It’s not caused by the kitchen being hot from all the baking I’ve been doing this past hour.
“You could come with me.”
The sun shines through the kitchen window, highlighting each silver scar in a beautiful way.
“Are you nervous for you, or over me being alone?”
“What makes you think I’m nervous at all?” Ambrose asks, shoving an overly appetizing piece of avocado toast into his mouth.
It’s green, you don’t want it, I try to tell myself.
Turning away, I distract myself by adding a second layer to his birthday cake. Yes, I’m a few days late, and this is my second attempt, but we have so much to celebrate.
And he deserves a cake.
Carefully lining up the layers, buttercream floods out the sides. I reply to him, “I know you, Ambrose La’Darragh.”
“Okay. For you. I just don’t like the idea of you being alone here.”
“I have Bubbles.” I point over my shoulder to the dog basking on my altar like she’s an offering to the goddesses.
“I just don’t trust certain people. And we antagonized said person last night.” He places the last bite into his mouth, this one also catching my eye.
“He should be at work. I’ll be okay.”
“Only for the next half an hour. My appointment runs for sixty minutes.”
“I’ll be fine. Eat your toast.”
Stealing my pink food coloring from the table and dropping a few blobs into the bowl of avocado he’s mashed.
With a spoon, not a knife, he layers it onto another piece of toast.
“Eat the toast?” he asks, with a pleased with himself smile. “It’s kinda pink now.”
“It’s kinda brown.”
“It’s a dark nude.”
I giggle but step up to his side anyway. Opening my mouth, I trust him to feed me just a bite.
The zesty lemon taste and his love for overusing pepper dance on my tongue. I catch some crumbs before they fall to the floor, shaking them off into the sink.
“How was it?”
“Peppery.”
His laugh booms through the air. “So, it was great then?”
“You’re such a weirdo. And you’re gonna be late.”
“I know. I’ll leave this here in case you want more.” He places the avocado-clad slice of bread on a small plate. “Shall I order us something for dinner on the way home?”
“Well, I was thinking about making you one of those curries that you like, but we need to place a food order.”
“We can go through it later together. Bubbles is also running low. I’ll see if I can grab something on the way home, but seriously, you don’t have to make Indian food.
I know your stomach is sensitive.” He leaves his seat, stepping up to me, and tipping my chin up, he places a soft kiss on my mouth.
It leaves me giddy.
“Another kiss, and you still haven’t been sick.”
“I think that’s over.” A second kiss lands on my head.
The oven dings, pulling me away from him because another cake layer is done.
“One more kiss, Dollie. I don’t need to be worrying about something bad happening while I’m gone.”
“It won’t.”
He freezes, like he’s unsure whether or not to protest. “You’re probably right.”
“Yep, but if you’re late for your psychology appointment and Dr. Harrison doesn’t think you’re taking it seriously, something bad might actually happen.”
“Okay.” His hands rise in defense. “I’m going.”
“Drive safe.”
“I will. Don’t forget my birthday cake request!”
His birthday cake request tugs at my lips. He requested pink frosting so that I could share it with him.
God, he really is perfect.
Around an hour later, I unlock the door, ready for Ambrose to come home. The weather has returned to its usual state of heavy rain and darkening clouds.
Please be safe, I think to myself as I stare out the window.
The sound of footsteps moving through the reading room encourages a sigh of relief from me.
“I’m glad you’re home safe. I was getting worried about the weath?—”
I move to the door, and an aroma of heavy alcohol and cheap cologne burns my nose. It isn’t Ambrose and the spicy scent he left with, but Shane, here in the reading room.
“We need to talk.”
We don’t. I have nothing left to say.
My eyes fly to the clock on the wall.
It’s 6:02 p.m.
Ambrose’s appointment ended about ten minutes ago.
A beer can crunches between Shane’s fingers. He doesn’t usually drink during the day, but I know this isn’t his first drink today.
The can flies through the air and bounces off the shelf, too close to where my new unicorn sits.
Minutes pass, and he’s yet to say a thing to me. His ass is perched on my red velvet chaise lounge. His body denting it, his dirty clothes may be staining it.
Who even cares anymore?
I could call him in here, tell him again that this—us—is over, and has been since that day I found the messages, but a small fear inside begs me to take things slowly now that he’s in my house.
“Did you need something?” I ask cautiously.
He laughs, red eyes finding me. I dip my head, avoiding his gaze, and he mistakes that for shame.
“You should be ashamed. Fucking your brother is disgusting enough. I hope you used protection. No, I hope you catch what he has.”
“You need to leave.”
“Why? For calling you out for being your brother’s whore?”
Bubbles’ tail whips me from behind as she steps up to my side. Her lips hike, revealing a full set of sharp teeth, and a growl emanates from her.
“If that mutt touches me, I’ll have her put down.”
Hooking her fingers through her collar, I guide her through the kitchen. “Go on, girl.”
I point, asking her to go into the den. She refuses, moving only to a corner of the kitchen. Beady eyes stay on Shane as he steps into the room.
Putting on a brave front, I continue with what I was doing before he arrived, arching over and piping more frosting to the edges of my cake. Body aches have taken me hostage, so my movements are slower than I’d like. And I’d really like this done and the cake moved to somewhere safe from his anger.
“I thought I smelled something sweet. I assumed it was you.” Shane’s voice enters my ear over my shoulder. He’s about to defile my beautiful cake with an unwashed finger while delivering cringy compliments that he doesn’t even mean.
“What are you doing here?” I turn, finding him too close to me.
Flat palms to his chest, I guide him back.
“I’ve been texting, but getting no answers. I think I’ve been blocked.”
“You have. It’s best for both of us if we move on.”
“Because you’re fucking someone else.”
“Shane, we don’t need to fight. I really don’t feel well enough for this today.” It’s almost like my stomach knows it’s having curry tonight, and is already acting up because of it.
“You look okay to me,” he says, gripping my face harshly.
I push him away, my touch much gentler than his.
“My body aches. I’d like a little space.”
“Is that because you were fucked all over the bedroom last night or just part of your stomach thing?”
“My stomach thing? You mean my chronic illness?”
“Oh, Lancie, it’s not that bad.”
I roll my eyes.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, I’m only kidding. You can never take a fucking joke, can you?”
“No. I can’t.”
Ignoring me, his gaze slips back to the cake.
“Don’t you dare. I worked on this all afternoon.” I slide it away from him on the table.
“Did you get a new customer?”
“No.”
“So, you spent all morning making a cake just to make one, and you won’t share it with me?”
“We’re done, Shane. That means we’re done sharing things, too. Please, just leave. You can wait in the reading room if you want me to call you an Uber.”
“It’s for someone. Who?”
My frilly pale pink apron serves as a makeshift dish towel, which I use to wipe off the frosting from my hands. Regret comes instantly because I know it’ll be a tough fight to get the bright color out, and I remember my parents buying this for me on their last Christmas.
I take a breath I don’t deserve, and clutch the edges of the cake box, ready to escort it to safety when big hands cover mine, and that’s when I realize I never answered Shane.
“It’s for Ambrose.”
“Ambrose, who you’re fucking? Ambrose, who killed your fucking parents? You stupid, easy slut.”
Shane’s voice remains calm, too calm as his body stiffens, his whole demeanor altering. Calloused fingers tighten on my hands, and my bones grind against one another. A spread of red- hot anger stains his pale face, which stands out against his fake Dior sweater.
I can feel it starting, a feeling strong enough to outweigh the guilt over my parents that just crept back. It begins with a pounding in my chest. A thin layer of sweat that sticks my hoodie to my back. My trembling knees threaten that I won’t get this cake across the kitchen.
Panic sets in, latching onto my movements and thoughts. Memories flood me, and phantom pains attack my skull. For a second, I’m back in the foyer. The feel of his hands closing in around my throat, and that dries my mouth. The next moment, a pillow covers my face as blasts hit me from beyond it.
The fear I felt, were Mom and Dad’s last moments like that? Was it terrifying for them to have their lives taken by a person they loved and trusted?
Is this karma?
“Lancie,” Shane snaps, pulling me back to the here and now. “Why did you make him a cake?”
The way he says him lets me know how angry he is, his spit hitting me in the face.
“I-I-it-it’s a belated birthday cake.” The panic spreads, controlling the stuttering words on my tongue.
“And you care about what he likes so much that you want to be the one to give it to him?”
My chest squeezes, not having the courage to voice the truth that I’d give Ambrose anything.
His grip tightens again.
My eyes drop to our hands, my bones moving uncomfortably with the pressure beneath his.
“I thought you said you wouldn’t do this?” he shakes his head, the rancid smell of beer wafting in my face.
“What have I done?”