Page 101 of Play Nice

“Shh,” Hannah tells him. “The dead are sleeping.”

“Yeah, but they’ll sleep through anything,” I say.

“I envy them for that. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in eighteen months. Here. I’ll carry him for a while.”

We pause, and Hannah gets Morpheus out of the stroller and attaches him to her chest with some kind of wrap thing. They’re both in all black, a little skull adorning the kid’s onesie. Hannah covers his head with a black bucket hat.

“Where does one buy goth baby clothes?” I ask.

“There are places,” she says. “You’d be surprised.”

We pause for a brief photo shoot near some mausoleums. Content creation among the bones. It’s more her aesthetic than mine, but I participate because I need something to post, to make my life appear haunted in a glamorous, aspirational way instead of a depressing, tortured, terrifying way.

I’ve been staying with Hannah for the last two nights. Before that, Veronica. But her boyfriend and I used to hook up before they got together, and she doesn’t know, and he’s not subtle, so it’s complicated. And they only have a pull-out couch, which is not ideal. Hannah has a guest room and a partner I’ve never touched. But she has this asshole baby.

He side-eyes me now from her chest, curling his tiny baby lips into a punk rock snarl.

“You’re meeting your sisters tomorrow?” Hannah asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“You’re welcome to stay,” she says, but I know she doesn’t mean it.

After being freshly traumatized by the exorcism chapter of Demon of Edgewood Drive and my little chitchats with Aunt Helen, I redirected my energy to looking at apartments online and scheduling viewings. I’ve been back in the city working and checking out new places all week. My friends have been willing to put me up because they feel sorry for me, which I’ve reluctantly accepted. I decided to stay in New York through the weekend, for the big lunch with my sisters.

Avoidance has been an effective strategy for the house, the book, the demon. The same can’t be said for Austin. I miss him. But I don’t want to see him or talk to him because I’m afraid I’ll open up, be honest with him about what’s been happening, and if I do that, I can’t undo it. There’s no putting the toothpaste back in the tube.

“You all right, dollface?” Hannah asks me.

“I’m heartbroken. The boy I love doesn’t love me.” I lean in to kiss the baby’s cheek and he squawks. “See?”

“He’s just fussy,” she says. “Don’t take it personally.”

“What if Morph grows up and decides he likes to dress in beige? What if he joins a fraternity. Listens to country music and wears boat shoes?”

“I’ll love him just the same,” she says, booping his nose. “But he won’t, because he’s mine.”

—

The restaurant Daphne picked is in Hell’s Kitchen. I’ve never been before because I avoid Midtown, as a rule.

It’s a sunny summer day, and I wear my Dolce & Gabbana strapless charmeuse dress with the bluebell print, my black Chanel sunglasses, label-less beaded gold clutch from a stoop sale, and patent leather platform heels with an open toe and ankle straps from some slutty discount store in the mall near Dad’s house. Amy picked out these shoes, and I figured, why not? Touch of tacky never hurt anyone.

I got a blowout this morning, a manicure and pedicure. I feel like myself. Composed and confident. In my element.

But it’s still there, under the surface. The nag of everything that’s happened over these last few months. Mom’s death, her funeral, her book, Dad’s burning of that book. The new book. The happenings at Edgewood. Austin. My sisters. The fire at my apartment. Ugly truths. Ugly fiction. Ugly words. Ugly house. Ugly feelings.

There’s no room in my beautiful life for all this ugliness.

And yet, here it is.

I push open the door to the restaurant. It’s an upscale gastropub. Dark wood, polished concrete floors, exposed brick, dimly lit. It’s busy.

Daphne and Leda wait for me in a corner booth. I’m not surprised they’re already here—Leda is always early, Daphne on time, and I’m always late—but I am surprised to find them sitting on the same side of the booth. Usually, Daffy will sit next to me. It feels like a strategic move. Like I’m walking into an ambush.

“Hey,” I say, sliding onto the empty bench. I pick up the cocktail menu. “Twenty dollars for a drink. Intriguing.”

“Are you complaining?” Daphne asks.