Page 136 of Play Nice

She ashes her cigarette over the banister. “But we can talk about anything you want to talk about. Edgewood. Alex.”

“So strange that sometimes you don’t know how you feel about someone until they’re gone. And even then…” I say, taking a sip of coffee. It burns my tongue, a tiny tragedy. A temporary one. “They should really warn you about that.”

“Some lessons can only be taught by regret.”

I say nothing because there’s nothing to say to that. I sit in silence as the truth presses its elbows in.

“I suppose the demon does exist,” Helen says.

“Yeah? What convinced you? What happened to Roy?”

She takes a drag. “You. Your sisters. I don’t know how Lex would feel about that. I hope she can be exonerated for some of it.”

I understand that the demon exploited my mother’s vulnerabilities, weaponized them against her. Her sadness, her addiction. The same way it exploits my penchant for chaos. It is not alone in that behavior. It is not special. It is one of many. My father taught me that.

I will not fight against it or try to appease it. Those efforts are futile. My mother taught me that.

I accept that it exists. That there’s a being out there that wants my attention, my energy, my best, my worst. My joy. My pain. That’s taken from me and would continue to take should I allow it, should I continue to dance with it, and if I were to say anything about it, no one would listen. No one would believe me. Not really. Not without their doubts. Without questioning my honesty, my integrity, my sanity. Whether I deserved it.

There’s a being out there that would fuck with me just because it can, with no consequences. Because it’s bored. Just because.

Too bad for it, I know that game and play it better.

I know that the real way to win is to not play at all.

I’m done with the demon. I’m done with Edgewood Drive. Game over.

I look at Aunt Helen and the beautiful view beyond her, and I inhale the scent of coffee and tobacco and a new day. That magic morning smell.

It’s hope, is what it is. Hope for whatever comes next.

After

The open bar was a mistake; everyone’s drunk half an hour into the party.

“Congratulations,” Veronica says, kissing my cheeks.

“Thank you, thank you,” I say, faking a smile. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

“Of course! Wouldn’t miss it,” she says. “Even if we weren’t friends. Your line is amazing.”

Turns out that fashion is more forgiving of insanity than I’d initially assumed. I actually gained followers from my unhinged Instagram activity, inadvertently created an aura of mystery for myself. Hannah hooked me up with one of her friends, a designer for a London-based luxury brand with a romantic, gothic aesthetic. They brought me on as creative director, and we worked together on a line that we’re celebrating tonight, on Halloween Eve. Mischief Night.

“This party, Clio! I’m obsessed with the decor. And these flower arrangements. Stunning,” Veronica says, fawning. “And, like, everyone is here.”

As much as I’m grateful to have landed on my feet, things are different for me now. People whisper when I walk by. They stare. There’s a caution in how I’m approached, a certain tone used to address me. Even here at this party, my accomplishment, my art, it isn’t met with respect. It’s met with the phony, condescending enthusiasm of an elementary school award ceremony.

That brief public exposure of my vulnerability—of my pain, my confusion, my fear, my grief—will forever overshadow everything I do.

“Hey,” Austin says, handing me a flute of champagne.

“Thanks, babe. Austin, this is Veronica. Veronica, Austin.”

“Oh my God!” Veronica says. “The man who finally locked Clio down. I’ve been so intrigued.”

Austin shakes Veronica’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Is my family here yet?” I ask him.