Neither of us move. Instead, we watch Eleanor storm into the house as Edward mourns his bashed-to-hell BMW. He had that custom made last year. I don't see what's so special about it, but guys and cars have always confounded me.
"You don't have to stick around for this," I grumble, glancing up at Dane apologetically.
Eleanor comes running back out with a stack of dishes in her hands. Like Frisbees, those suckers go flying across the yard, aimed straight at Edward. Dane's laughter roars out as Edward is forced to duck and dodge, but he doesn't escape three of them. One slaps him in the knee, which causes a stumble that leads to him falling and stilling long enough for Eleanor to hit him with two more. One actually catches him in the face, busting his nose and causing a gushing flow of red.
"Baby, you couldn't drag me away from this," Dane says with his entertained grin.
I stifle a smile as Tria snorts out a laugh. Why is she finding humor in this? She adores Edward. After all, she's Daddy's girl.
This is the worst possible time for this.
I finally get Dane. I had an entire speech planned for this morning.
Step one was to ask him about that damn letter. I want to know why he never came for me, or even mentioned it. And was last night real? Are we really a couple, or was he drunk enough to play with my heart?
Instead of having the answers I need, I've got a bleeding father on the front lawn of a twelve-thousand square-foot home; a stepmother who has lost the path to sanity; and a sister who was comfortable enough to spend the night at Dane's. That's another thing we'll be discussing.
If he's serious about us being together, Tria has to go. If he was drunk and didn't mean any of that... I'll be borrowing some of those plates from Eleanor.
"I can't believe no one has called the cops," Tria groans.
People have been waiting on this for years. They wouldn't dare deny Eleanor this moment of madness. She deserves to beat the unholy hell out of the douche.
Edward cries out when he catches another shot to the gut. This time, Eleanor has thrown one of his heavy boots at him.
Suits, shirts, pants... every form of men's clothing is on the lawn, covering up the synthetic sod almost completely. The ocean is within view, but the beach is at least a half-mile hike. This is normally a very quiet, respectable neighborhood. Right now... It's like the Real Housewives uncut version.
"Get the hell out of my house, you sick son of a bitch! And don't you dare come back."
She walks close to him as he barely makes it to his feet, and almost as quickly, he's falling back down to the ground, cupping his balls as Eleanor brings her knee back down from the air. I'm so proud of her right now.
Dane hisses air through his teeth and reflexively covers his own groin, and I earn a few brow raises when I applaud Eleanor's finale.
She stalks away, and the front door slams hard enough to rattle the glass around it. Dane chuckles lightly as Edward makes it up onto his knees, rocking back and forth as though he's close to vomiting. I'm tempted to go kick him while he's down—literally—but I decide against it.
He looks up at us and releases a harsh breath, and then his eyes roam around the very curious neighborhood that he has woken up to watch the craziness. After a long few minutes of collective, awkward, and judgmental silence, the snake slithers into his smashed up car and drives away, never uttering a word to explain himself.
"Dane, you can go. Tria and I probably need to go check on Eleanor and find out what the asshole did."
He fr
owns as he laces his fingers with mine. "I'd rather stay. She might need something, and I can be the fetch-it boy while you all talk."
Now's not the time to be grinning and openly falling putty to him, but he makes it impossible not to. Eleanor. First I have to concentrate on Eleanor.
We make it to the house, and Dane's hand never leaves mine. Tria pushes through the door, eyeing the path of destruction in front of us. And I thought Dane and I made a mess.
The house looks like a tornado breezed through. Even the walls have cracks, as though the battle started in here and ended up on the lawn. Lamps are broken, light fixtures are barely hanging on, and rugs are crumpled and left in disarray.
Laughter finds us—loud, delirious, hysterical laughter, and Tria and I exchange a look of concern. Eleanor has seriously lost it.
We follow the sound to the den, which is just as wrecked as the rest of the house. The coffee table is broken in two, which is curious, since that wood is hella thick. And three of the giant floor-to-ceiling windows have been shattered, probably from where Eleanor threw things through them.
Poor Eleanor is sitting on a couch and laughing crazily while ripping up pictures, tossing the shards to the ground like confetti.
"Mom," Tria says cautiously, approaching her mother like she's a rabid animal.
Eleanor looks up from her task, but only long enough to see us. She shakes her head while resuming her task, her laughter not easing even a little. Her hair looks as though she hasn't brushed it in days, and her eyes have bags under them, painting her years of sleep deprivation with their black circles.