Page 40 of The Bitterness of Venom

It’s like it was when I left. The window is open from me running to Desmond’s the last time I was here all those years ago. The covers half falling off my old bed. The picture frame on the nightstand. I walk to it, grabbing the frame and staring down at thirteen-year-old Desmond and myself. Desmond smiles, his teeth covered in braces. He looks so innocent, but that darkness I remember stilllingers. Our eyes are twin pools of sadness but our smiles are real. My sandy blonde hair is in a braid, my glasses sitting atop my freckled nose. I stuff the picture into my bag and climb onto the bed, hopping out the window.

My feet land on worn ground as I trudge up the tiny hill to the train tracks.Ourtrain tracks. The feeling is different than the last time I walked these. I feel somber instead of scared. The only thing the same is the person waiting on the other side.

Desmond lays on the train tracks, looking up at the cloudy sky. I walk toward him, standing to block his view. He smirks. "Freckles."

"Demon."

He chuckles, rising to a sitting position and pulling me down onto his lap. I stare into his dark eyes, wondering what he's thinking. He pushes a strand of loose hair behind my ear. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

I shake my head. I didn’t because I was never looking for anything. I pull the old picture frame out and hand it to him. His brow furrows in confusion as he grabs it, but his face quickly turns into this beautiful, real smile. "Holy shit, look at us. We were babies." He chuckles.

"Small and innocent," I comment, taking the photo back and tucking it safely in my bag. "Don't we have, like, a dinner or something?"

He sighs. "Yeah, but you know them, always fighting and shit. I just needed some space first."

It's weird to see glimpses of the old Desmond. Like in this moment it reminds me of us before I abandoned him. I allow myself to touch him. To run my fingertips over his strong jawline and his arrogant nose. "Careful, Freckles," he whispers and I move my fingers to his lips, feeling the pillowy texture. "I may start to think you like me."

I scoff, standing up. "Yeah, right."

He stands, stretching and grabbing my hand, our fingersintertwining. My heart flutters. And I look away so he can't see my blush.

He leads me into the back of his childhood home, straight to the kitchen. Mr. and Mrs. Rickman pause. His mom’s eyes move to our joined hands and narrow. She swallows, placing a fake smile on her face. It's the same one she always gave me when we were kids. "Blaise. Desmond said you would be joining us for Thanksgiving dinner."

"Thank you for having me," I say with my own fake smile. Although I don’t think I pull it off quite as well as she does.

"Nonsense," Mr. Rickman says, a slimy smirk on his face. I can't put my finger on it but something about him has never sat right with me. "We'll have your bags put in the guest room."

"They're in mine already," Desmond says, interrupting his father.

I think his mom might faint by the look on her face.

Desmond’s father, however, chuckles. "Very well. Why don't you guys head up and change? Dinner will be ready soon."

Desmond pulls on my arm, leading me to the stairs I've been up a million times before. We enter his room and he pulls the door closed behind him.He gestures to his bathroom. "I'm going to take a shower."

I nod, opening my bag and staring at the outfits he paired and folded together. I pull the white sweater with the plaid skirt. Fishnet tights tucked between them. I smile. I shouldn't, but I do. I even swoon because he didn't try to change me to fit in with his parents. I slip the clothes on, allowing my wavy, pink hair to spill freely down my back, and put on my boots.

Creeping out the door, I head to the kitchen. Desmond’s father is gone but his mother is there. She's not cooking, though. More like flipping through a magazine as their staff run around behind her. "Is there anything I can help with?" Iask because it's the least I can do since they are allowing me to crash their holiday when I'm clearly not wanted.

Mrs. Rickman looks up, hazel eyes narrowing as she sits up straighter. "Take a seat." She kicks the chair out from in front of her.

I sit, looking to her expectantly.

She leans her elbows on the table, resting her chin in her hands. "What is it about my son that makes you keep coming back? His money, perhaps?" She pulls a checkbook from her purse that lays at her feet. "I swear I had gotten rid of you once before by donating to social services to get you out of this town, yet here I am again." Everything inside of me tightens and my hands curl around the edges of my seat. She puts the checkbook down, pen in hand as she looks back at me. "Name your price."

Gritting my teeth, I look her in her eye so she doesn't mistake my answer for modesty instead of honesty. "I don't want your money."

"Then what is it you want? What can I offer you to stay away from my son?"

I give her a small smile. "Maybe tell your son to stay away from me."

"Is everything okay here?" Desmond asks, hair still damp and his sweater clinging to his fit frame.

His mom smiles. "Of course. We were just catching up, isn't that right, dear?" She looks over to me expectingly.

"Of course."

Desmond walks over, pulling me up and slinging his arm around me. As if he's shielding me from her.

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