Me: Sweet dreams, beautiful Nightmare.
TESSA
My parents’ home is cozy with understated country charm. They’ve got the dining room, great room, and sunroom transformed into a party space with round tables and chairs for the guests, a breakfast bar and buffet table littered with homemade dishes, and flowers that brag about my mother’s green thumb. The wraparound porch has enough rocking chairs to lull their company into a food-induced coma after brunch.
It’s quaint and wholesome and boasts of community with the aroma of the potluck and the earthy, vinegary fragrance of the distant bald cypress trees. A vision of where I don’t fit.
Stuffing all the nerves plaguing me into a deep, dark hole reserved for activities I willingly participate in even though I’d prefer to be tied to a stake, I breeze over to the food spread and set down my covered dish. The front door was open, and all the rooms are buzzing with life, but it seems most of the party is outside. Like any summer day in Louisiana though, it’s already nearly ninety degrees, so people might eventually wander back inside.
My mother and oldest sister, Eden, are scurrying about the kitchen, completing the final preparations. This is one of those awkward moments when I have a choice: I can offer to help, to which they’ll turn me down because they think I’ll get in the way, or I can join the party, and they’ll passive-aggressively claim I never do my part.
Neither of those statements would be untrue. I don’t do my part because I’m always in the way. Of course, that’s only here. Especially since …
My phone buzzes in my purse, so I check it quickly before anyone notices me.
Maddox: Morning, Nightmare. What’s it going to be today? A fun fact or my face between those perfect thighs until you’re hoarse from screaming my name?
I can’t keep the smile from blasting across my cheeks—a rarity when I’m standing in my childhood home. The man is getting to me. Between the banter and his relentless flirting and the nickname he assigned me based on a movie I love, I’m in trouble. But with the screen as a barrier, it’s harmless, so I indulge him.
Me: I’ll spare your ego. Instead of turning you down, again, I’ll blame my reasoning on the fact that I’m not at work. A fun fact is more practical.
Maddox: Practical isn’t really my style. I could be persuaded to make a house call.
Me: I’m sure you could. But you’d have to be invited in, Drac, and that’s nothappening. I have a lot going on today. Think of your question and get back to me later.
Maddox: I’ve already got a question.
“Good Lord. Who died, Tessa?” That would be my big sister’s greeting.
A myriad of unkind responses flit through my mind, but I stopped taking the bait a while back, so I tuck my phone in my purse, set it on the counter, and play nice. “It’s lovely to see you, as always, Eden.”
My mother glances over her shoulder at me while stirring something on the stove. “I think she’s referring to your dress, honey. It’s eleven a.m. on a summer morning. Color won’t kill you.”
For the record, I am wearing a black prairie-esque dress that is modest and paired with the most cowgirl-ish combat boots I could find. They might actually be corsair boots, but they’re gorgeous and close enough to the style my family gravitates toward. Pirates and cowboys surely have similar taste in women. It’s hot country-chic, gothic elegance at its finest. I’m not sure what they want from me.
“My hair is silver, my eyes are blue, and my necklace is amethyst. I’m practically a rainbow,” I counter, plugging in my Crock-Pot. “I brought the chicken and dumplings.”
“Oh, that was … thoughtful.” My mother keeps stirring. “But Eden already made that.”
Eden casts an impudent grimace in my direction that reminds me to take the high road.
“That’s odd since I texted Eden that I’d be making them, but at least it’s a loved dish. It won’t go to waste.”
“It’s Vi’s favorite, so I didn’t want to take a chance …” Eden leaves her insinuation dangling.
It’s the one accusation that boils my blood and cuts me deep. I am a lot of things, but I am never the person who doesn’t show up.
“Oh, sweetie,” my mother coos, reading my face like only moms can do. “It’s fine. Maybe you could take it back home and even freeze it. I’m sure you have a lot of dinners alone.” After she twists the dagger my sister speared me with, she wipes her hands and saunters toward me, wrapping me in a hug. “You don’t have to be alone. There’s someone anxious to see you.”
Right. It’s so simple. Live life according to their rules and be accepted. It infuriates me, and yet I was doing okay when I gave in a little, until …
An unwelcome flash of that horrific night smacks me in the face.
Her cry hits my ears a second before I turn the corner. I pull the knitting needle from my hair—it’s sharp. It was a gift from my mother, even though she knew I didn’t knit. I told her I’d put it to good use and proceeded to pull my silver strands into an updo with it, which actually made her crack a smile. I’ve worn it in my hair for months as a reminder that we’re bridging things.
My locks cascade down my shoulders. It’s the last sensation I feel before blistering rage cloaks me.
“Please stop,” she whimpers, and he slaps her across the face.
