Desires of the Dead

She shoved the frame and the tissue back inside the bag, and she left it, along with the rest of her uneaten cake, on the counter as she stalked back up the stairs.

Stupid, stupid Jay.

Just when she was starting to feel a little bit better, he had to come along and ruin it again.

Sloth

Silence gathered, heralding her favorite time of night.

She crept from her room as noiselessly as she could, the old floorboards creaking on occasion, but she had learned the best places to step to keep them from protesting too loudly. The house was dark, just the way she liked it. And calm.

The living room was cluttered with dirty dishes, and newspapers were spread over nearly every surface. Laundry—dirty and clean—littered the floors, and bottles covered the coffee table in front of the television.

She worked quickly, gathering the newspapers. She carried plates and empty bottles to the kitchen, picking up garbage and folding laundry. She tried not to breathe the sour odor of cheap whiskey that mingled sickeningly with the scent of cigarettes that clung to everything her father touched—his clothing, his skin, his breath. She cringed at the idea of those odors—his odors—touching her.

She told herself to ignore them; the sooner she finished, the sooner she could get back to bed.

She heard a door open down the shadowed hallway, and her breath lodged in her throat. Her heart forgot to beat.

Footsteps padded over the floorboards, obviously not as careful as hers had been, and she winced with every creak she heard.

“What are you doing?” her brother muttered, bleary-eyed, and at last she found her breath. “You can do this in the morning.”

She shook her head. She didn’t want to tell him the truth, that she much preferred to do her chores when their father wasn’t around. That in the morning there was still a chance he’d be there. That she might have to see him, to talk to him. “I couldn’t sleep,” she lied.

“At least let me help,” he offered, clearing the countertops and carrying the rest of the dishes to the sink.

She thought about opening up to her brother, about asking him how he could stand this useless version of their father. How he could stand any of it.

But she knew how: He was stronger than she was; he always had been. Even when they were little, she was the one who stumbled and fell, who needed someone to pick her up and brush her off. She was the one who’d needed their mother.

He had always been so independent, so determined to do things on his own. He was smart, social, resilient. Everything she wasn’t.

Sometimes she wondered if he’d even noticed that their mother was gone. That their father was no longer the same man. And that she was damaged . . . broken.

She wanted to talk to him, but she wouldn’t, because she didn’t want him to see how weak she was.

So, instead of talking, she finished the dishes in silence.

As she dried her hands, her brother tied off the kitchen trash bag. “Go on and go to bed.” His smile was genuine, maybe even sweet. “I’ll finish up and turn out the lights.”

She didn’t argue; she just nodded, making her way back down the hallway, watching each step she took, carefully calculating where her foot should fall so as not to wake her father.

Chapter 22

Violet went back to school the next day, mostly because she knew staying home again wouldn’t make her return any easier. She had to get it over with eventually. But being there, under the same roof as Jay, was something along the lines of a carefully choreographed dance. And it wasn’t just Jay she needed to avoid.

Violet didn’t expect it to be difficult to steer clear of Megan. They were in different classes—different grades—and it had never been a problem before. But now Violet was acutely aware that it was always a possibility, that at some point, and when she least expected it, there was a chance they could cross paths.

Jay, however, was a different story. It would have been impossible to avoid him altogether, especially since they shared some of the same classes. But Violet did everything in her power to stay as far away from him as she could.

She arrived to her classes early and asked other students if she could switch seats with them, earning her a strange look or two, but no one actually complained—at least not out loud anyway.

But even with those precautions, Violet still felt uncomfortable. She could feel Jay’s eyes on her, beseeching her to look his way, daring her to ignore him.

And it was hard. Violet wanted to peek, to sneak a glance in his direction, just to see him for a moment. But she couldn’t take the chance. She knew that he’d be waiting, watching for her to slip.

Between classes it was more difficult, and after fourth period Jay was waiting for her in the hallway. It was tough to see him there, face-to-face, hard to remain detached when he seemed so earnest, so sincere. His eyes were tired and red, and he looked defeated even before he spoke.

She tried to brush past him, but he stopped her, grabbing her hand and pulling her back. His touch was like liquid fire against her skin, and Violet cringed at the tingling awareness she felt as his fingers scalded her.

“Violet, please . . . just talk to me.”

But if seeing him had been difficult, hearing his voice was worse. It was raw and full of emotion. He sounded so . . . so miserable.

Like her.

But she couldn’t let him do this to her. She had to be stronger. “Jay, don’t. I don’t want to talk to you. Just leave me alone.” She wanted to say please, to beg him to walk away in case she wasn’t able to, but she was afraid of that word. It was too soft, and she worried that it might reveal too much of what she felt in that moment, seeing him in person.