“Of course,” Dad says.
“I’ll take her,” I offer before anyone else. I’d rather spend a little time with Haven than sit around Brooks’s room pretending to be devastated while simultaneously resenting him.
I scoop her out of Mom’s lap, and she wraps her legs around my hip. She smells like Play-Doh and strawberry shampoo.
“I’ll come.” Delilah follows.
We leave Brooks’s floor and head out to an empty lobby where a TV plays The Price Is Right on mute with the closed caption running. An assortment of Highlights magazines are splayed neatly on a nearby table, and a corner houses a child-sized table and chair set and a shelf of half-broken, well-loved toys.
It doesn’t take but two seconds for Haven to spot the kiddie corner. She shimmies down my leg and makes a mad dash.
“Apparently, toys are way more fun than the two coolest aunts in the world.” Delilah smirks.
“Someday, she’ll get her priorities straight.”
We take a seat next to Haven. I’m sure we look ridiculous sitting in these tiny chairs, but no one’s around to see it, so it doesn’t matter. A tin can full of broken crayons and a small stack of coloring books call to us.
“You wanna?” Delilah points.
I nod. “Duh.”
Haven plays with two naked Barbies and a handful of matchbox cars, and we color.
“I know you’re probably getting sick of people asking, but—”
My hand flies up. “I’m fine, Delilah. I’ll let you know if I need anything. Can we talk about something other than Brooks right now? ‘Cause if there’s anything I need, it’s a break from talking about Brooks.”
“Fine.” She grabs a nubby yellow Crayola and shades the tail of a triceratops.
“Dinosaurs aren’t yellow.” Haven sticks a chubby hand on her hip and furrows her brow.
“What color do you want me to use?” My sister plunks the crayon back in the tin.
“Blue,” Haven says. “Like your eyes.”
“Your eyes too,” I say.
“You too, Aunt Demi.” Haven grins. “We all have the same eyes.”
“We do,” I say.
Delilah fishes around for a usable crayon in the most appropriate shade of pale blue and pulls out periwinkle instead.
“Close enough.” She scribbles.
“How’s school going?”
“Talk about annoying questions.” She laughs. “People act like if you’re in school, that it’s the only thing going on in your life.”
“You’re in grad school. I assume it keeps you pretty busy. I know I don’t hear from you as much anymore.”
“Aw, are you trying to guilt trip me? Because I distinctly remember your Hargrove days and going weeks without so much as a text.” Delilah grins. “You were wild back then.”
I lift a brow, silently pleading the fifth.
“At least until Brooks came along,” she mutters. Her eyes lift to mine. “Sorry. I forgot. No Brooks.”
I thank her with a tight, smug smile, and she laughs. It’s easy to forget, in these small, mundane moments, the swarming chaos happening outside this little waiting area.
“Did Royal ever show back up?” My sister stops scribbling and glances across the tiny table at me.
Haven hops off her chair and grabs a doll. She clearly doesn’t seem to mind that it’s missing an eye, because she cradles it in her arms and gives it a kiss on the cheek. I guess that’s what you do when you love something. You choose not to see their imperfections. You look past the things you don’t want to see.
Guess that’s why they say love is blind.
I must have loved Brooks enough, because apparently, I was blind to his affair. There had to have been signs. I just chose not to see them.
Is that what I’d done all these years? Looked past all those times Brooks had disappointed me or fielded my questions or thrown man-tantrums when he wanted something badly enough?
Last Valentine’s Day, I wanted to eat at an Italian restaurant, Café Tosca. I made reservations. He cancelled them. Said he wanted Thai. I begged and pleaded. We fought. Over a fucking restaurant.
Café Tosca is in Glidden.
I bet that was their place.
“Hey, I’m talking to you.” Delilah throws a broken crayon at me. “Did Royal show up again?”
I tighten my shoulders and lick my lips. I could tell her no, and I could change the subject, but she’s my sister. She’ll see right through me.
“Yeah,” I say. “He did.”
“And?”
“And.” I inhale, taking my time. “He acts like he’s sorry.”
“Sorry for what? Did he tell you?”