Page 116 of Play Nice

Part of me is flattered, because I love attention. We have that in common, the demon and me. I like being the favorite. This part of me feels an allegiance to it. A kinship.

But then I look down at my burn and I remember it throwing the lighter at my head. I remember the deranged photos I posted to my stories the other night and the all-consuming savage fear I feel inside that house.

“Okay, yeah. Please come. But don’t bring a whole team,” I say. “I don’t want this to be a big thing. You have to keep it between us. My family, my sisters, they can’t know. No one can.”

It’ll be hard enough to save face after posting those stories.

I think of Laurie with her lipsticks, who right now at this moment is in Orlando, Florida, probably in some princess-themed hotel doing makeup for a bride who thinks she’s Cinderella, listening to a soundtrack of Disney songs. Couldn’t be me.

“Clio, you have my word,” he says. “I’m in Chicago. I’m lecturing here Thursday night. As soon as it’s over, I’ll get in my car and I’ll drive to the house.”

“I’ll text you the code to the door,” I say, swatting a mosquito. “I have something on Friday afternoon. I’m not sure when I can meet you there.”

“You’re not there now?”

“No,” I say. “I’m at my dad’s.”

“That’s probably for the best,” he says. “You did the right thing. Calling. I won’t let you down.”

“Did you say the same thing to her?”

His longest pause yet. So long, I almost consider apologizing. Almost. If only I could ignore the truth, what’s clear to me now, that before this moment incarnated as a vague mistrust. My intuition alerting me to what I couldn’t yet articulate.

“I regret that I wasn’t there,” he says eventually. “I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

“Yeah, for sure. But here’s the thing. You gave me the key to the house.”

“It’s your house.”

“Nah. You wanted me there. You wanted this. You were waiting for my call. For me to need you. You used me—used us—to get to it. Maybe Mom drank because, deep down, she knew. I’m not fucking dumb, Roy. Don’t treat me like I am. See you Friday.”

I hang up, drop my phone to the mulch at my feet, which are now caked in dirt.

“Clio,” Dad calls from the patio. “What are you doing back there?”

“Inner child work,” I shout back.

“What?”

“In preparation of Friday.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re woefully unprepared for therapy,” I mutter, picking up my phone and walking toward him.

“Come inside,” he says. “Forecast says rain.”

32

The sky cracks open, and it pours rain for three days straight.

On Friday morning, Daphne arrives early with donuts.

She lets herself into my room, sits at the foot of my bed, and says, “I’m here. I brought donuts.”

“It’s eight a.m., Daffy. What time did you leave Hudson?”

She clicks her tongue. “Couldn’t sleep.”