My jaw tightens.
Fallon glides through the dingy rec room like she doesn’t hear a thing. But I do. And every last one of these fuckers is on a mental kill list I could burn through in under a week.
“Where do I put this, love?” I ask, leaning into her, acting like I adore her, to drive these people as crazy as they think she is.
Hell, I’m not sure I’m acting, to be honest.
“Let’s put it next to the mashed potatoes.” She points.
I weave around crowded tables and reach the back of the room. As I approach, I overhear a guy by the cider station who called her crazy, lean into his buddy and say, “Don’t mess with that girl. Youknowwho her father is.”
I put down the baking dish, letting the pan clatter loudly against the metal table. “Forget about her father, mate,” I say, my voice deep and serious. “You should be more worriedabout me.”
The guy pales and sips his cider. I better not be within reach of his open container because I will poison it.
While someone drones on about the lack of donations at a recent food drive, Fallon re-arranges the serving table based on dish sizes.
“Why doesn’t her rich daddy buy her nicer clothes?” someone blurts from the back.
Fallon hums to no one, “Because I don’t want to look like a doll.”
I cackle at how she doesn’t let these eejits upset her and takes it all in stride. Christ, she’s strong. I imagine taking her on a kill with that basil plant to freak the fucker out byletting her have one of their conversations in front of him. I can use a mental terrorist on my team.
A man with a black braid welcomes us and reminds everyone about the parade and the food they need for their pantry.
Fallon takes notes, jotting it all down. God, she’s so kind and giving.
“Let’s eat!” she chirps, pulling me toward the food line.
A swarm of older women try to flirt with me while we line up for food. The woman who came with another woman whispers that they’re looking for a man once in a while to join them.
Ina church…
I brush them off with a harsh look and grunts sharp enough to cut their throats.
Fallon, thankfully, doesn’t notice. She teeters quietly in place as she waits for her turn.
I get to the front of the line and grab two plates for us. The food is unholy-looking. Gray turkey. Gluey-looking potatoes. Dry, over-cooked stuffing. Fallon’s apple dish is the only edible thing on the table.
Fallon piles on a modest slice of turkey and a teeny scoop of each side, including her apple dish. Food in hand, I steer her to a table with a few other people, but she shakes her head and plops down at the only empty one.
No one says anything to her. No one invites her to sit at their table. Fallon just offers me a napkin and begins to eat daintily, like being alone in a room full of people is perfectly normal. Like these people ignoring her is normal.
I hate it. Maybe because I’m Irish, and I come from a big, loud family.
So much forFriendsgiving.
I suffer through the food, but stop when Fallon’s face lights up.
“Someone brought my favorite cupcakes.” She points to the dessert table.
“Which one is your favorite?” I ask, mapping out a path where I will hopefully run a few people down.
Aye, ina church.
“I can never decide.” She licks her lips. “My favorite is the chocolate with vanilla icing. But the chocolate icing is so delicious.”
I make a mental note of the name of the bakery and plan to buy a tub of their icing and let her lick it off my body.
