Page 39 of Worse Than Wicked
“I don’t,” he says, scowling at me. “I don’t give a fuck about him. I just think it’s funny.”
“Are you coming?” I ask.
“Why would I come?” he asks, his tone belligerent now. “I don’t care who’s there. I don’t need to see one more fucking Darling. They’re crawling all over this place already. Why do you think I’m not out back with Royal and Devlin and Preston?”
I have one of those moments of stark clarity where I’m reminded how much I missed when I left town. Then, it would’ve been unthinkable for Royal to willingly hang out with the Darling cousins. Apparently he can forgive them more easily than his own brother.
After a beat of silence, Prince’s voice rings out from under the coffee table. “Fucking Darling.”
“Great,” Crystal says. “Now he probably thinks that’s the name of his new sibling.”
Duke starts laughing louder than warranted. He doesn’t look up when Mabel and I excuse ourselves and leave. I can tell something is bothering him, but I won’t ask in front of the others and risk his fragile ego.
eleven
Mabel Darling
“Are you nervous?” Baron asks, glancing at me from the corner of his eye as we turn onto the long, dirt drive to my father’s house.
“No,” I say. “Why would I be nervous?”
“You haven’t seen your family in three years,” he points out.
“But they’re still my family,” I say. “And I’ve been talking to them for the past year.”
He nods and pulls Duke’s SUV into the shade of the oaks that hang over the parking area in front of the house. I don’t recognize any of the handful of cars parked there, and I think Baron was trying to remind me how much things have changed, little things that I might not have talked to them about over text or video chat but that add up when taken together.
When we reach the front door, I’m not sure if tradition dictates I knock. Since my family buys into that sort of thing, and I don’t live here, I decide to be on the safe side and wait to be invited in.
Dad opens the door, holding a cane in one hand and the knob in the other. He takes one look at me and pulls me into a bear hug, saying all the customary things, that it’s good to see me, he’s so glad I’m home, that he missed me. I can’t imagine that he did. It must have been a relief to have the danger gone from the house, the constant worrying that he’d get a call from the hospital or police.
At last, he releases me and grabs into the edge of the door again for balance. Baron hands him the cane that he dropped when he hugged me, and he nods, his lips tight. I notice the new wrinkles around his eyes, that his hair is streaked with more white than is evident over video.
“Come in,” he says, and he steps back.
Baron and I follow him as he makes his slow way to the living room, holding up our progress. The hallway is silent except for the scuff of his shoe that drags a little with each lurching step and the thump of the cane on the hardwood. When we reach the living room, Colt jumps up and comes to meet us, then stops.
“I know you don’t like hugs,” he says. “But fuck, it’s good to see you in one piece.”
He looks me up and down as if searching for missing parts, but Baron doesn’t do permanent damage to his own property. He likes me to look perfect on the outside, an unbroken doll.
“Thanks,” I say. “You look… A little different.”
One corner of Colt’s mouth quirks in a wry smile, and he points to his face. “Reconstructive surgery.”
“Right,” I say. “I knew that.”
Again, I knew he looked different over video, and not just because he’s twenty instead of seventeen, but the slight alteration in his appearance is more apparent in person.
“I’m still the same old asshole,” he assures me, then steps back and gestures to the three remaining people in the room. “Mom’s still Mom, and this is her caretaker, Mildred. Really, she’s a caretaker for all of us. She comes every day and takes care of stuff around the house when Mom’s sleeping.”
I swallow hard, my eyes drawn to Aurora, who sits staring out the window with vacant eyes, as still as a statue.
The last person, a strange man, stands and holds out a hand. A weird sense ofdéjà voussweeps over me, because I know I’ve never met this man in my life, and yet, there’s no mistaking his familiarity. He’s fortyish, with expensively cut, dark blond hair with golden streaks from the sun and a tan to match, blue eyes behind thin bifocal lenses, a square jaw, and broad shoulders clad in a fitted, Ralph Lauren polo shirt.
“Hi, Mabel,” he says. “Your dad’s told me a lot about you. I’m your uncle James.”
“Oh,” I say, glancing at his hand and then back to his face. “Hi. I’d rather not shake, if you don’t mind.”
