Chapter 21
?
No contest.
Clara
My family will be here for dinner.
So for dinner I’ve made their favorites. Eggplant casserole for Dad. Sirloin steak for Mom. Viktor’s famous mac and cheese for Brent.
A side of green beans, because everyone likes green beans.
A salad, because salads are lovely.
Two types of fresh bread, because can you really serve eggplant without an Italian loaf or steak without buttered rolls?
Crème br?lée and zucchini bread for dessert.
Also, punch.
And some deviled eggs.
Because…yum?
Okay. So I’m a little stressed.
I’ve been up since four.
Over twelve hours of cooking and baking have gone by…
My family is going to be here soon.
According to Mom’s last ETA text, I have ten minutes to panic. But I really don’t want to panic. Why am I doing this to myself? This isn’t going to go well. I already know that. Do I just want to make sure that, if it ever comes up, I can say I sincerely did my best?
Staring at the long, long dining room table, which rests in an elegant—if cold—room and seats twenty, I know why I made the deviled eggs.
I wanted to fill this table. It’s a massive table, and having multiple serving platters for each dish wouldn’t have done the trick quite so well without the deviled eggs.
As I place the final pitcher of punch atop the shining ebony surface, my nerves bundle.
Everything looks beautiful. Everything is piping hot, covered, awaiting.
Now I just need to survive the meal, and the next few days, because a four-hour trip up from North Carolina is rough twice in the same day, and I actually don’t know how long my family plans to stay here, and I have no clue why I’m even letting them at all.
What is wrong with me?
I really must be stupid.
“We’re here to support you,” Viktor says, startling me.
When I turn, I find my family. My new family. Everyone, from brothers, to sisters, to future sisters. They’re all here. Everyone I’ve had meals with for a month is here. To support me.
“Which family member do we like the least?” Crisis asks. “I’ll sit by them.”
Lukas settles a hand on Crisis’s shoulder. “Can we set up a kid’s table, and sit you with just the three of them?”
“Maelin can bring food from the adult table over,” Zakery offers.
Maelin winces. “Um. I’m not sure any of us would survive my carrying things around Crisis.”
“That’s the point, princess. The whole point.” Zakery kisses his wife’s cheek, then smiles at me, a touch of his older brother’s insanity reflecting in his pale blue eyes. “Do your parents have feelings about tattoos? I can gladly go topless, too.”
“That too offends me. I’m not topless,” Lukas protests, wearing one of his iconic trench coats that bares his whole chest.
My parents do love to judge people for their tattoos. Or hair dye. Or…I look down at myself…weight.
I am not looking forward to any snide comments concerning any of those things.
Setting a hand on my stomach, I free a breath.
This is going to be horrible.
Brutal as a cruel joke, the doorbell rings like a foreboding gong.
My stomach drops into my toes as a wave of sudden chill washes over me. Heart pounding, I forget what I’m doing—standing—and nearly collapse. Lukas catches me before I fall, and he’s lifting my face to meet his eyes while my head swirls—panic rising.
Why? Why, why, why did I want this? I could have stomached lifelong guilt. I could have managed the tears of grief and buried myself in the warmth I’ve found here. I did not need to give any last chances. I did not need to reach for a closure that won’t come in the way I need it to.
My parents will not change.
People don’t change so easily.
They are just, genuinely, unkind and selfish people, and they raised my brother to be an unkind and selfish person, and I may spend the rest of my life worrying about any traits they’ve passed on into me, too.
I don’t want to be an unkind and selfish person.
It would not have been unkind or selfish to protect myself from further abuse.
“Clara,” Lukas says, perfectly stable, utterly calm.
I focus on him past the ringing in my ears. “Yes…King?”
His mouth closes over mine, and chemicals explode in my brain.
A muffled noise escapes me, then my body and nerves go limp against him.
My fingers press to the bare skin of his chest, tracing a wing of his phoenix tattoo.
When he frees my lips, I’m lightheaded, but breathing deep.
He murmurs, “Keep your eyes on me. You’re safe. ”
“No one messes with my sandwich dealer,” Kyran mutters, glancing sidelong at me, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. “And certainly no one messes with my sister.”
Emotions choke me, but I tell myself not to cry, and I almost manage it…until my mother’s shrill voice rattles through the room, shaking the crystal chandeliers. “Well!” she declares. “Too busy to greet your own mother at the door?”
Turning, I find crossed arms, green eyes, blonde hair, and the constant haughty disappointment I remember. It breaks, marginally, and she spreads her arms as a sniffle rocks her. “Come here, baby.”
My body moves, automatically, and I wrap my mother up in a hug as sobs rend through my chest.
Pain. There’s just pain.
Pain that I don’t know what to do with.
Pain broken by more pain.
“Have you gained weight, Clara?” Mom mutters in my ear.
“You should be watching yourself better with someone like King interested in marrying you.” Her face shows no signs of distaste when she pushes me back and cradles my jaw in her hand, shaking me slightly.
“There’s my crybaby,” she says, smile wide. “How have you been holding up, honey?”
An arm lands heavily around my waist before it reels me in against firm muscles.
Mom’s expression cools. “King.”
“Food’s getting cold. My girl’s been working all day on this meal.” His hand slips down my hip, back up. “Let’s give it the respect it deserves.”
“Figures you wouldn’t let a mother talk to her daughter for five minutes.” She throws a hand out toward my father and brother. “Clara hasn’t even greeted her whole family yet.”
Standing, awestruck, Brent gapes at the massive room, fingers clutching a Nintendo Switch.
His attention lowers, but not to me. Nostrils flaring, he takes in Kyran, swallows hard, then passes me like I’m nobody.
“You’re FrostPlays,” he says, wiping his hand on his jeans before extending it.
“I’m a huge fan. Can you sign my Switch? ”
While my heart weathers the familiar neglect from my older brother, my father sets two suitcases down and lets his lip curl. “Why has Clara been cooking all day? Don’t you have people for that?”
Mom lifts a hand, finger pointing up. “Exactly right. Clara’s not a very good cook, I’m afraid. There’s still time to order something, or we could go out?” Her eyes shine. “I saw this beautiful restaurant on the way in. What was it called, Gregory?”
“Swan or something,” Dad says, nodding, wrinkling his nose at the table I worked all day to set up. “We can go there.”
“We can sit down,” Crimson states, smile icy as she pushes back the waterfall of her red hair. “Now.”
Dad has the gall to give Crimson’s low-cut white dress a onceover, and Kaleb has the self control to keep from hitting him as he steps in to block her body with his.
Discouraged already, I chew my lip while my mother resigns, loudly, with passive aggressive complaints.
Lukas guides me to a chair beside him.
Mom plops down in the free space right next to me while Brent sits beside Kyran, seemingly oblivious that he’s sitting across from me. His rambling about videos he loves meets the brick wall of Kyran swiping on his phone.
Morana sits on Kyran’s other side, overlooking his phone for the first time ever and snaps, “No consoles at the table.”
Brent grimaces. “Who’s this chick, Frost?”
“My worst nightmare,” Kyran mutters, cutting his eyes toward her with the sharp edge of an almost smile. “Here I thought I was special.”
Morana’s lashes flutter at Kyran even as she addresses my brother. “If you don’t put that Switch up, I’m pouring punch in the card reader.”
“Listen here, you—” Brent can’t finish his cuss before Kyran whirls around and grips his mouth.
“If you continue down this path, I will end you. Put your—” Kyran swears. “—Switch away.”
Horrified, Mom lays a hand on her chest and grips my arm. “You live with these violent people, honey?”
“Calling Kyran violent is actually the stupidest thing I’ve heard all year,” Lukas mutters, “and I met a wolfkin who pissed himself in my presence months ago.” His disconcerting eyes home in on my mother. “Don’t you know anything? I’m the violent one.”
Mom lifts her chin. “It seems to run in the family.”
“Where do you think I got it from?”
Stomach rioting, I reach for the nearest basket of rolls and offer it to my mother. “Let’s eat?”
She takes one with a curt smile. “Thank goodness. Store-bought bread. Remember when you tried to make bread for us years ago?” Her laughter scathes. “It was horrible. I’ve never seen something turn out so bad.”
“The yeast was old,” I whisper. “I didn’t know because it was instant…” You don’t have to bloom instant yeast. But now I do. I let all my yeast bloom, just to make sure it does.
“Don’t talk back to your mother,” my father says from her other side as he takes a roll. “Making excuses for your failures is pitiful.”
Failures are how we grow. Mistakes are how we learn. Accidents make us cautious enough to improve.
Mom pats my cheek before saying, “No one’s asked about our trip yet.”
I take the cue. “How was the drive up?”
“Horrible! The traffic was endless, and we hit a drizzle at around the two hour mark! The construction!” She goes on for a while about the abusive condition of the drive while she butters her roll, then before she takes a bite, she says, “You’ll see on our way back home tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I whisper.