Page 106 of Play Nice

I find my phone on the floor beside me. I take pictures of the drawings. I don’t know why.

None of them have blacked-out windows.

I reach for the Sharpie on the bed, lean over the nearest drawing, and scribble in the windows.

There’s movement at the corner of my eye.

I turn toward the closet, the door swinging wide.

In my head, a bell chimes.

Was that part real? What would Roy have to say if I called him and asked about the exorcism? How much did Mom make up?

What would Roy have to say if I asked him if he really loved my mother or if he just has a hard-on for demons?

The closet is shallow; I barely fit inside. Above me is the panel to the attic.

I’ve never been up there before.

I go upstairs to get the ladder, but before I can bring it down, there’s a knock at the front door. The ladder gets abandoned.

I open the door figuring it might be Dad, but it’s Austin.

“Hey,” he says, leaning in to kiss me. “Been a minute.”

“Yeah,” I say, turning away from him. I’m still in my Dolce dress, but I’m barefoot, my makeup smudged, hair tangled, drenched in sweat and covered in dust. I don’t want to be seen.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Is this a bad time?”

I blink at him. “No.”

“No?” He rests his arm against the doorframe. I haven’t invited him in yet.

“You want to sit out here?” he asks, gesturing to the front steps.

“Yeah, okay,” I say, thinking about all the paper scattered around that I don’t want him to see, all the questions I don’t want him to ask. “Let me go get something first. I’ll meet you, just a sec.”

I run upstairs and grab the vodka. There’s less than I remember.

Austin sits with his hands on his knees. He accepts the bottle when I pass it to him, but he doesn’t drink. He reaches over and pulls one of my curls straight.

I’m hyperaware of my appearance. I want to shrink. I want the sun to set faster. I want darkness. I want shadow. I want to black out the world. I should have held on to that Sharpie.

I don’t want him to look at me the way he’s looking at me. With what might be concern or pity or fear.

I reach for the vodka and take a gulp.

“I watched your stories,” he says. “That’s how I knew you were here.”

“What?” I ask.

“Your stories. The pictures you posted.”

“What pictures?”

“Are you…” He laughs. “I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me.”

“Why would I ever do a thing like that?”