For that reason, I’m edgy.
I have other reasons for not wanting to be here, as well. The breast lump I discovered this morning is the cherry on top.
My real choice would have been to enjoy—as best I could, at least—my last day crammed into the tiny apartment I call home, wearing too-big pajamas, and because that was my initial suggestion, we now have to spend our last night there fixing the hinges on the bedroom door and a hole in the wall. Allwhile I worry over the lump in my boob that doesn’t seem to bother Shane, my boyfriend, who says he’s sick of my spoiled behavior. He doesn’t see that his behavior is worse—that he isn’t supportive or caring, and that this issue could be life-threatening.
Right now, I’m wondering if proposing to him was a good idea.
Especially since I said I wanted to get married within the year, and time is ticking away.
Tomorrow, we pack up and leave for my childhood home. We’ll be fixing it up all fancy to sell and pay for the wedding.
Dread is all I feel regarding that—the house, well, and now the wedding, too. But mostly the house.
Bad memories haunt my mind, images of tears streaming down my face and my stepbrother’s while we were pulled apart as he was cuffed and carted off to an institution. Memories of him and me three years later—him trying to drag me around my parents as they lie in their own blood, unmoving.
I blink away the images that place goosebumps on my arms and feel another tear claw at my bloodshot eyes. I’ve cried a lot today. And I’ll cry a lot tomorrow because that place was, and no doubt still is, hell dressed up as a Gothic mansion.
And this two-for-one restaurant on the outskirts of this declining town isn’t much better.
Shane wanted us to come. I’m sure the free dinner is what enticed him, as in the time I’d known all these people, I hadn’t seen any of them interact with each other all that much, either.
A stab of pain catches me in the breast, and I push away the starter I didn’t enjoy. Half of the soggy bruschetta is still on the plate, camping out in grease. The childhood comfort I got from only eating pinkish or yellow-colored foods is still something I struggle with breaking away from in my mid-twenties.
And with the anxiety of this lunch date, I didn’t need the added worry of foods that I felt unsafe eating.So, I’d ordered what looked unappealing from the menu because it was the only thing close to those colors.
William and Miranda sit opposite me.
Miranda gives the wasted dish a squinted glance before she shows off her bad table manners by talking with a full mouth.
The polite and probably awkward-looking smile on my face drops when I catch up with the conversation she’s having with her son.
“You don’t remember her? How could you not? She’s a pretty girl. A very pretty girl. You were in school together.”
“I don’t remember her.” Shane practically inhales a chicken wing, barely chewing the meat before he swallows. He drops the bones, and they clatter on his plate.
“She still wears those booty shorts.”
The urge to soak Miranda with the table water nudges me hard. So hard I’m out of my seat, but before I drench her and tell her that her wing woman practices need work, I shift my attention to Shane.
“Excuse me. I’m going to the bathroom.”I’ll come back when I’m sure I’m done being disrespected at the table.
He barely nods as I smooth down my sundress and leave. Miranda’s eyes wander to the glove on my left hand as I pass her. It’s almost like she thinks she hasn’t made me uncomfortable enough already.
After a long twenty minutes and a failed attempt to make myself look and feel better, I exit the bathroom, assuming the conversation is done. However, Miranda and her full mouth are still talking about this woman in booty shorts that only she remembers.
No one gives me more than a quick glance upon returning. A lifetime of stomach issues gives me excuses to leave whenever I need a break, and no one asks questions.
I sit back in my seat and take mouthfuls of the pasta I’d ordered. It’s soggy, so it has either been here for a while or left in the water too long.
Shane is as eager as I am to change the subject. “We decided we’re moving back to Lancie’s hometown. We’re gonna stay in her house while we fix it up to sell.”
“God,” William finally breaks his silence. “That place is gonna need a lot of work, you know that, don’t you?”
“You knew we were selling it to pay for the wedding. We figured it would be easier for us to do it while we are there. Dollancie disagrees, but that’s because she thinks it’s haunted.” Shane laughs.
Twirling the ring on my finger, I let the thought drift back in.Is this even a good idea?
Miranda talking again stops me from coming up with an answer. “It probably does haunt her. What her awful stepbrother did to her family. He shredded that family apart. Literally.”
