Page 20 of Sweet Ruin

Then I run the cable to my laptop, boot it up, and the whole rig sputters awake.

It takes a bit of adjusting the display settings, but eventually, there’s a nice, crisp picture being cast on the screen. It’s as high definition as it’s going to get.

Good. I want our entire family to see every last fucking pixel.

“Is that silly machine going to bellow like that all night?” Mom calls from the table in the next room over.

“Only until I find the—” I stab two buttons. “There. Fixed.”

“Your father never had it humming.”

“Well, I guess the projector misses Dad,” I say. Under my breath, I add, “It and me might be the only ones who do.”

That’s a bit harsh. I’m sure my mother misses him. They were married for a long time, after all. They bought this house the year they got hitched and lived here ever since. But the cancer was a swift and brutal affair, and I think Mom decided that it’s best to just call that a closed chapter and move on.

As for Vivian... well, who knows what she thinks? I’ve stopped pretending I do. I think she likes that Dad’s trust-fund money will ensure she can do whatever she wants for the rest of her life.

That was her choice, though. I didn’t make the same one.

Dad begged me to take his money before he went, but I wanted to start the bakery on my own two feet. It didn’t feel right to launch my dream on a handout.

Did that make things harder? Uh, yeah. By a lot.

But I’ve found a way to persevere through the hard times. We’re a real business now, settling somewhere between “thriving” and “solvent.” All things considered, I’ll take it.

While the test screen glows, I walk the room and check all the sight lines. I’m no wedding planner, but I’ve catered enough weddings by now to know that it’s extremely important to ensure all your VIPs get a good look at what’s going on.

Mom will take the hardback chair against the back wall.

Connor’s father will stand at the back like the ex-military man he is, eternally at parade rest even though he’s been back from Operation Desert Storm for a long time now.

Viv will inevitably claim the overstuffed armchair that’s dead center, because it most resembles a throne.

Normally, Connor and I would go on the loveseat. But things are going to be a little different this year. I wonder where he’ll end up. Not that I really care, to be honest.

I keep backing up, mentally placing aunts and uncles and cousins and nephews and nieces, all the assorted Dorseys and plus-ones, until I reach the farthest possible vantage point, the door to the pantry.

Wow—I never realized how weirdly good the acoustics are from here. It’s kinda the best seat in the house. Not only can I see the entire living room, but every single sound in the house gets cast perfectly to this exact vantage point.

I catch Mom muttering vaguely rude napkin eugenics at the pile. “...the everyday ones are fine for the neighbors...”

Then she stops. “Delilah? Delilah Aileen, where on earth did you go wandering off to? I swear, you’ll take any excuse to duck chores…”

I grimace. Thirty seconds of not being immediately useful to her and suddenly, I’m “Delilah Aileen” and “ducking chores.”

That used to grate on me. Up until, oh, I dunno… a day ago?… it would’ve brought me running to her to be useful.

Now, I’m more tempted to take every last can of peeled tomatoes in here and hurl them at the wall, just to leave her with a mess that she can clean up for once.

But—no. I can’t. I have a few more hours of being the good daughter.

Then—and only then—I can tell my whole family to do like I once wrote on a cake for that nice lady at the bakery:

Eat Shit and Die.

So for the time being, I suck up this newfound fire in my belly.

“In here, Mom!” I call out.