I want to see her look at me like she did this morning.
“Hey, remember that time we had a picnic by Meyer’s pond? It was late October, and it started snowing out of nowhere. We tried to stick it out, but I couldn’t stand watching you shiver like that, so we took it home and had a picnic by the fireplace at your parents’ place,” I say.
“Yeah? What about it?”
“You have a fireplace. Let’s have a picnic.”
“Seriously, Royal?”
“Fine. Forget I said anything. It was a lame attempt to get your mind off all this other shit.” I stare at the scattered statements around our feet.
“You’re trying to be romantic.”
Was I?
Maybe.
“For the record, I still haven’t forgiven you,” she says. “Just because you’re here, bringing me food, doing nice things for me . . . it doesn’t change anything.”
“I know. Just happy for another chance.”
“Who said anything about another chance?”
“I mean, like another chance to get to be in your life. Another chance for me to prove I’m not a total scumbag, and I didn’t walk out on you—on us. Not the way you think. At least, not on purpose.”
Our stares lock. Her stomach growls with empty echoes.
“Come on.” She gathers the food in her arms and hauls it to her impeccable living room. I yank a throw blanket from the back of a sofa and spread it in front of the fireplace as she hits the switch with a free elbow.
The fire roars to life and settles into a comfortable glow.
Sitting cross-legged across from one another, we eat in silence. The food’s cold, but it goes down just the same.
“I like your hair like that,” I say.
She runs a hand through a tangled mess of waves, brows lifting. “I look like shit. You don’t have to lie.”
“Nah, I mean the curls. You took time to do your hair today.”
She chews a small bite of cheeseburger and swallows.
“Brenda keeps springing these interviews on me,” she says. “She said something about a photographer coming to chronicle Brooks’s ordeal, but we don’t know when. He’s flying in from somewhere. Los Angeles maybe? It’s ridiculous, but that’s Brenda.”
“Not a very private woman.”
“Not. At. All.”
“She nice though?”
“Extremely.” Demi places a hand across her heart. “I love that woman. She would’ve been the best thing about marrying Brooks. The woman treats me like gold, like the daughter she never had. Can’t tell you how many shopping sprees she’s taken me on. My entire wardrobe has been paid for by Brenda and hand-chosen by a personal shopper at Saks.”
“Rough life.” I smirk.
“I never wanted those things. She insisted.” Demi places a half-finished sandwich aside and wipes her hands on a napkin. “I don’t think it’s right for anyone to carry around a bag worth more than a used car.”
Her gaze lands on mine, her shoulders slumping forward.
“I need a drink,” she says. “You want a drink?”
Before I have a chance to answer, she’s gone. Clinking and clamoring comes from the kitchen, and when she returns with two glasses filled clear to the top with white wine, it’s too late to refuse it.
I’m not much of a drinker. The conditions of my parole clearly stated I was not to conduct myself in any kind of altered state via drugs or alcohol. I snuck a random case of beer into my apartment here or there during some particularly low points in my life, but for the most part, I didn’t need to drink.
Never been a fan of feeling out of control.
I spent my entire life being out of control of most of the shit that’s happened to me. Feeling drunk, knowing I can’t leave if I have to, knowing my inhibitions are shot to shit—and the words that come out of my mouth may or may not be well-delivered—doesn’t exactly appeal to me.
I take a small sip because I don’t want her to drink alone. Shit tastes expensive.
“I feel fancy,” I tease. She smiles. I almost tease her about rich people drowning their troubles in overpriced bottles of wine, but I stop. She’s six-figures deep in that asshole’s debt, and she’s a fucking schoolteacher.
“Never used to like wine.” Demi takes a generous sip, and then her pink tongue grazes the corners of her mouth. “Started drinking it to impress Brooks. He told me common cocktails were trashy. Abbotts drink fine wines and bourbons and Scotch. Anything imported and worth more than a small country’s gross domestic product is an acceptable drink.”
“That asshole was grooming you six ways from Sunday, wasn’t he? Making you into his perfect little Stepford wife-to-be.”