It’s obviously not quiet enough for Saint to ask, “Morgan?”
“My mom’s boyfrie—”
“Indie!” Her mirror-blue eyes widen, darting to the archway to the dining room, then back to me.
I shrug. “What? You’re not too old for a boyfriend, Mom.”
She glances at Saint, plastering the politest smile at him, one that used to be reserved for when Regina, Jenna and I would return home drunk off our asses, waking up the neighbours. “We’re just friends.”
“Friends,” I mock, earning me a flick on the ear, dangerously close to the earpiece nestled between my loose waves.
“I still have the power to ground you, y’know.”
I roll my eyes with a smile on my face, until I notice a shadow round the corner. I’m instantly on alert when I clock the masculine figure, uncoiling slightly when I see it’s Morgan.
He’s a couple years older than my mom, light brown hair and fair skin, a good few inches shorter than Saint, but has this leisurely way of holding himself, like he’s never in a rush to be anywhere, always swaying in the wind when he walks.
He gives me a kiss on the cheek as Mom introduces him to Saint, and I don’t miss the step backwards he takes to get his full frame in eyesight.
The two of them chat back and forth as I scan the foyer. It’s been years since I was last here. The floor is so pale, you can see your reflection in it.
Marble.
A red-hot huff breathes past my lips, taking me back to my thoughts when I killed Clarke. The signs have always been here;I was just too ignorant, never expecting my own family to be capable.
“Louisa, look who’s here!”
The moment I’ve been dreading, but undoubtedly knew I would face sooner or later, almost impales me into the wall when Mom calls out.
My ears draw back as I hear Louisa before I see her, the clack of her heels growing louder as she stalks across the foyer, dressed to kill. Fitted in her signature suit, all sharp edges and ponytail scraped back as the free hair swishes behind her like a whip. “Still have questionable fashion choices I see.”
My jaw wants to wire shut, sealing in what my heart is screaming to say. But the brush of Saint’s hand against my lower back secures the mask. “I see you’ve still got a stick up your ass.”
She hugs me despite my insult, and I fight to yield my muscles into relaxation, stiffening instead. Hers pull taut beneath my hold, and my breath gets lodged in my throat.
“Louisa.” Saint’s voice rumbles against my spine, and I feel the heat of his glare without even needing to turn and witness it.
“Saint…nice to see you again.”
Sarcasm drips from his tone as he snickers. “And you.”
She untangles herself from me, warily fixating over my shoulder, her hands flattening her already straight designer suit. Me before the revelation would tease her for wearing work attire after office hours, ask her if she owns anything that doesn’t scream big time corporation. It’s on the tip of my tongue, dangling on the edge to come out.
Instead, I obliterate it.
My sister isn’t who I thought she was; she’s hurt me more than anyone ever has in my entire existence. “Where’s Barry?” I ask boredly, glancing at the archway and catching a glimpse of someone walking by.
“Oh…he should be here soon, he got held up at work this morning,” she answers, turning on her heels to lead us to the dining table. Saint catches my eye as Mom and Morgan walk with Louisa, his hand reaching for my neck to undo the tension in it; it’s clearly as visible as it feels.
Saint pulls my seat out as I’m seated next to Mom, Morgan across from her, and Louisa directly in front of me.
Great.
Louisa’s staff fill the room, placing down cutlery, and are shortly followed by more people putting plated food before us. My stomach churns at the sight. This isn’t even a formal dinner, not that we ever have those. It’s just a delayed family Thanksgiving.
One year Mom had too many glasses of wine and burned the turkey, and I remember the house filled with a smoke so thick we had to open every single ventilation point.
That’s what made it normal, her almost cremating the place as the place filled with laughter.
