Page 53 of Spite

Mom had said there was mail for me, but she neglected to tell me who it was from. It came in a fancy envelope, addressed to me and not my mom, which I thought was odd. Who did I know who would ever send me something so pretty and—I sniffed it—scented with strawberries?

My mom was in the kitchen, cooking dinner, and I sat in the living room on the couch, the TV on across from me, on some rerun of a sitcom I’d seen before. The letters were carefully handwritten, and in the pit of my stomach, I had the feeling I already knew who this was from.

I opened it, reading it, feeling the anger rising in my body like a storm surge, a tidal wave I could not fight. It was a fucking invitation to my dad’s wedding to Diane, addressed to me. They wanted me to come. How thoughtful.

Not.

My mom came into the living room. She’d been three years sober now, and she had two steady jobs. One full time, one part-time. She was looking a little thin, her eyes a bit sunken in, but at least she wasn’t always passed out on the couch anymore. She’d moved on from Dad, although she swore she would never date again. Me? I still hated him for what he did to us.

“It’s an invitation to Dad’s wedding,” I muttered, my fingers holding onto the thick paper so hard it started to crinkle.

Mom waited a moment before sitting beside me, running her hand down my back in the comforting way only a mother could. “Are you going to go?”

“Go? Why would I go?” I didn’t bother to hide the annoyance in my voice. “Why would I want to watch him marry the woman he cheated on you with? They’ll just end up getting divorced too, when he cheats on her once she hits thirty-five.” Never in my life had I sounded like such an angsty teenager, but I was one, and in this moment, I didn’t care.

“Don’t say that,” Mom spoke calmly, way too calm, given the circumstances. “You never know what’ll happen, Elle. She might be the love of your father’s life.”

“And you weren’t?”

Mom only shrugged. “I do think you owe it to your father to be there, to support him, but I won’t make you go. The decision is up to you. It’s been years since you’ve seen him. He wants you there on his big day.”

How could she be so calm about all of this? How could she not want to burn the invitation in my hands like I wanted to?

“I hate her, and I hate him.” I was aware I sounded stubborn and stupid, but I didn’t care. It was the truth, and I would hate them until the day I died. Hopefully they would die first.

“Remember what you talked about with your therapist? Forgiveness—”

“I can’t forgive them,” I said. “I won’t.” I got up, went into the kitchen, and tossed the invitation straight into the trash, fuming. My skin felt hot, like my anger was making me red. “I’m not going.”

Mom didn’t push it, didn’t push me. At the time, I’d thought that was that. The end of it. I thought I’d never have to worry about my dad or Diane ever again.

The joke was clearly on me.

My eyes flicked from the note to the shoes. I’d seen their wedding pictures in passing, mostly because they were hanging all around the house, where the photos of my dad and my mom used to be. I couldn’t not see them, unless I was blind. I knew her dress had been extravagant, but shoes rarely made it in any pictures.

They were gorgeous. Still sparkling and pristine after all these years. I picked up one of the heels, running my thumb along the silver heel. These were probably the prettiest pair of heels I’d ever laid eyes on.

I quietly set the shoe down, closing the box back up with the note inside. I slid off my mattress and shoved the box under the bed, where I’d hopefully forget about it.

Did I want to wear Diane’s shoes, pretty as they were? Fuck no.

Fuck her. Fuck him. Fuck them all.

I was grabbing my phone the next moment and texting a boy I probably shouldn’t be texting, not when I was so distraught, so angry. Xander. Asking if he could meet me at the front of my house in fifteen minutes—it wasn’t a text I thought I’d send, but I needed to talk to someone, and for some odd reason, I didn’t want to videochat with Leah about it. I wanted Xander.

I found him standing at the base of my driveway in exactly fifteen minutes, his car parked on the side of the street. He wore a baggy black hoodie, with pants that matched, chains hanging from their pockets. He was literally the most stereotypical emo boy around, based on looks. But inside? That was another story.

The sky was a swirl of colors, the daylight fading and changing into dusk. I had no idea how long I needed this walk to be, but I just had to get out of that house, whether it was for ten minutes or an hour. Or longer. I wasn’t opposed to finding a bench and sleeping on it.

“Hey,” Xander spoke once I stood before him. We started heading down the sidewalk. “Everything okay?”

I let out a sigh. “I don’t know anymore, Xander. I just don’t know.” Wincing at the sound of my own voice, I said, “I hate being there, pretending like I’m part of that family. I haven’t been a part of my dad’s family since he decided to bang Diane while still married to my mom.” The bitterness was almost too much to handle; I was fearful that Xander would throw up his hands and decide to walk away, tell me I was too much trouble.

Because I was. I totally was, and I wasn’t ashamed to admit it. I came with drama, baggage, and heapings of spite.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Just let me vent,” I said, meeting his dark eyes beneath his hair.

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