He fights.
If he found a fighting ring around here…
What if they were rougher than the one in New York? What if he didn’t know what he was getting into? And shit, how many times have I told him he’s going to get himself killed? One wrong hit, one person who gets carried away…
What if he’s lying in a hospital somewhere with amnesia? In a coma?
What if he’s the one who got carried away, and he beat someone to death, and the locals at the fight retaliated and killed him?
The front door slams, making us all jump. I swear I smell her perfume, lavender and jasmine, light and sweet, a second before she steps into the room. “There you are, darlings,” Mom crows, throwing her arms around King first.
“Mom,” I say, surprised at the lump in my throat. “What are you doing here?”
“Well, your father tells me Royal’s gone and got himself into some mess again,” she says. “I should have known he couldn’t keep you kids out of trouble by himself. Why, a month into the attempt and he’slostone of you.”
She laughs, and suddenly, the sentimental fantasy that Mommy is here to make it all better evaporates at the rude reminder of what my mother is really like.
“It’s not funny,” I grit out. “He could be dead.”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” says the woman who kept her visit a secret so she could surprise us by walking through the door. She probably wants us to fall all over ourselves with joy. Because of course this, like everything, is all about her.
She turns her cheek to collect kisses from my brothers as they embrace her, then steps over to pull me in for a hug and an air-kiss, as if there are hidden cameras on us at all times.
Welcome to being a Dolce Doll, I think. The Darlings might use that term to denote their fangirls, but our family embraces it like that’s what we are. Especially my mother.I can feel the bonds of my name tightening around me like corset strings cutting off my breath.But I smile and return her air kiss, my programming roaring back to life at full force. Never lose face. Never lose control. Never cry or show real emotion. Emotion is a currency, always calculated, shown in exact proportions at the correct times to get what one wants.
“Now, what are you four doing home in the middle of a Monday?” she asks, giving two quick snaps of her fingers behind her as the housekeeper struggles through the door, heaving her oversized Louis Vuitton luggage inside. She’s breathing hard, as she must be over seventy years old.
“Where should I put these, ma’am?”
“Oh, just leave them there for now,” Mom says. “I’ll have one of the men bring them up. Now, I’ll need a gin and tonic, and my purse. Where’s the rest of the staff?”
“Mom, it’s just her,” I say.
“I’ll take your bags up,” Duke says, snagging them before turning to our mother. “Which room should I put them in?”
We all wait, holding our breath, for the answer to that question. Are she and Daddy getting back together? Is this stay permanent, or just until Royal shows up?
“Just set them in the guest room,” she says. “And Crystal, make me a drink. We’re going to have to get some more help here for you kids. Have you been cooking your own meals? Your father tells me the Darlings have three servants, and they’ve only got three people living there.”
Here we go with the wholeKeeping Up with the Jonesesroutine. If they have three servants, we’d better have four. Sometimes I think she had five kids because she had to make sure she had more than any of the other Manhattan moms in her circle.
“There are six of you, so we’re going to need six,” she says, turning to the housekeeper. “Do you have any friends looking for work? We need a cook, a cleaning lady, a butler, a groundskeeper, a gardener, and a driver. And I guess you’ll do for the seventh, since I’m here.”
Before the poor woman can respond, Mom is back to us. Despite her faults, Mom knows how to get shit done. “Go get dressed. I’m taking you to school.”
“But Royal—” I start before she waves a hand.
“The police are looking for him. Your father’s made some calls as well. We’ll find your brother. In the meantime, there’s no use sitting around here stewing in misery. Being with friends will take your mind off things.”
“Okay,” I say, going to the liquor cabinet. “But let me get your drink before I go. You must be exhausted from traveling.”
After a couple martinis, Mom relaxes, and we manage to stay home the rest of the day. I pace the floor until I think I’ll wear a track in it. My brothers go out searching and come home drunk. Mom passes out on the couch, and Daddy never comes home at all.
I find myself sitting alone on the balcony just after dark, listening to the eerie sound of falling leaves skittering down the roof and over the eaves. And then I hear it—the familiar sound that sends a chill racing up my arms. Devlin is out back, throwing the football like he does every night. Like nothing happened.
No, that’s not exactly right. He hasn’t done that in a while, since he got suspended from the team. But now all must be good in his world, because he’s back at it.
I want to kill him. I want to hurt him more than he hurt me, but it’s not possible. Because to hurt someone the way they’ve hurt me, that person has to care about someone besides himself. They hurt me by hurting the person I love more than anyone else on earth. Devlin doesn’t love anyone. A heart can’t break if it doesn’t exist.