Page 31 of Filthy Little Regrets

Biting my cheek, I force back tears and stand, searching for a good place to set their picture. I’ll worry about the rest of the boxes later. Part of me hopes that if I leave them, maybe someday, I’ll get to go home.

Hope is a vicious beast, though. I can cling to it for another day or so before reality rips me apart. With my parents’ photo clutched to my chest, I meander through the mansion, ending up in the den. The moody, dark green walls are strangely comforting. The mantel above the fireplace holds a few picture frames. Curiosity drives me toward them. There’s one family portrait where everyone appears properly miserable and severe. Haven’t you heard? Rich people don’t smile. But that doesn’t hold true as my gaze traverses over the rest. They’re all of Mace with the two girls who clearly look like him.Sisters. In those pictures, they’re all smiling. On the beach. In a cabin next to a Christmas tree. On some Ferris wheel. Memory after memory.

They’ve had years together.

Jealousy gnaws at me, warring with the grief that sends a dull ache radiating through my body. My mom and grandpa both passed away when I was young. Dad lived a little longer, but the heart attack stole him from me way too soon. A parent should never have to bury their child, and after losing her husband and daughter-in-law, it was too much pain for Mimi to handle in her frail state. She followed him to the grave. My grandparents on my mom’s side are estranged.

I don’t have a family to build memories with. Rose hasbeen the only constant in my life, but she has a husband now. She obviously hasn’t abandoned me, but they have a different level of intimacy our friendship can’t compare to.

Looking at my parents’ smiling faces, I swallow the agony of living without them and carefully place the picture frame in a vacant space.

“There you are,” Chef says with a huff.

Spinning away from the mantel, like I’ve been caught sneaking cookies, I paste on a smile. “Here I am.”

Chef’s attention moves from me to the pictures. The worn wooden frame sticks out like a lawyer wearing a hot pink power suit. “Is that your family?”

Pushing aside the grief, I nod. “My parents,” I say with an aching rasp.

She pauses, searches my face, and nods in understanding. “My dad died a few years ago. It doesn’t really get easier, does it?”

“No,” I confess, looking away before I start crying.

“Have you met Mace’s sisters?” Chef asks, changing the subject with ease.

“Oh, um, no. Not yet.”

She places the steaming plate full of eggs, hash browns, and savory bacon on the table. “They’re nice. Trouble, but nice.”

“That’s good,” I say awkwardly. Does she know about Mace and me getting married?

“If you have food preferences, I need to know so I can prepare.”

Guess that answers that question. “The only thing I don’t like is mayonnaise and pickles.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Octopus?”

“Who eats octopus?” I ask with a nervous laugh.

Chef pointedly glances around, as if to remind me of the mansion I’m standing inside of.

“Right,” I say with a frown. “I’ve never tried it. But I like Chicken French.”

Her eyes soften, the first hints of her being human. “Honey, these people don’t eat Chicken French. How about steak or fish?”

Right. Silly me.

“Those are great. I promise, I’m not picky.”

Chef tips her head and considers me.

“What?” I ask, worrying I’ve said something wrong again.

“I’m glad you’re not a spoiled brat,” she confesses.

“Thanks, I guess?”

She grins, then glances at the food, which I have yet to touch, and scowls. “Eat,” she demands.

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