“I don’t think I like your kind hanging around my daughter.” Mom left the conversation, shoving past him and headed back tothe kitchen.
I dove back in and acted like I was straightening something on the butcher block.
“Magdalene, did you know that officer friend of yours is a…” She lowered her voice. “…a stripper?”
My eyes darted to Graham, whose glare at my mother was sharp enough to cut glass, then back to Mom.
“Yeah, Mom.” I swallowed. “I did.”
“And you invited him to dinner?” she asked quizzically. The disapproval in her voice was so thick I thought she was about to choke on it. “Maggie, you have no idea where he has been and what kind of filth he rolls around with.”
I picked up a cupcake and shoved it in my face, staring blankly at her and nodding as she continued rambling about how I should’ve been more careful with the type of people I kept close to me, how she still disapproved of my moving here, and how this was all too much for me—too much for her. I was being reckless, causing her unnecessary stress, and needed to start thinking about when I was going to put the Manor on the market.
Not knowing what else to do and not wanting to start a fight with her, I did what I did best. I turned my back to her while she moved on to informing the rest of the household what all was wrong with me, my life, and my friends—even the ones she was staring directly at.
A complete chicken...
Auselesschicken…
I took that entire platter of cupcakes into the sunroom where I could lock myself in, tug the curtains shut, and pull out my phone so I could doomscroll, just so I didn’t have to think for two seconds about pleasing her.
It had been about fifteen minutes and at least six more of those perfectly flavored—perfectly moist—cupcakes had been devoured. And those elves? They looked nothing like demons. They were full of Christmas cheer and Yuletide wonder.
The tears welled behind my lashes, but they didn’t fall. Pretty sure it was anger, tearing me up inside—no—rage. I bit into another cupcake, then aimed my finger at one of the elves and flicked its tiny head through the air straight into my monstera.
A soft knock at the door jump-started my heart.
“Open the door, Sugs, it’s only me,” Annie said, her voice warm and calm and exactly what I needed.
I unlocked the door and cracked it open. “Want a demonic elf cupcake?” I held up the half-eaten one with a headless elf poking from the frosting.
She let out a breath and sat beside me on the papasan. “Now, I know you ain’t got me sitting out there all alone with your family lookin’ like a goddamn Little Debbie Christmas Tree cake for nothin’.” She ran her hands down her white-and-red striped sweater, like she was presenting it to me for the first time. “What’s goin’ on, darlin’? Is it the murders?”
“First off, you wear that sweater every year.” I scrunched my face in disgust. “You love that hideous thing.”
“I do, don’t I?” She smiled, nodding.
“Second. It’s not the murders… I’m not scared this time, not really, anyway. It’s Graham… and Hunter… and Mom… and Jeremiah… and… and… Gemma? What the fuck even is that?” I sighed. “It’s all of them. No matter what I do, nobody cares and I’m just the big disappointing joke of the family.”
“Now, honey, you know as well as I do that just ain’t true.” Annie put an arm around my shoulder. “They’re here, ain’t they? They don’t necessarily understand your version of Christmas, or maybe even your life choices, but they’re here. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?”
“But Annie, I don’t want them here—at least not my family. I went through all this trouble, and it feels like it doesn’t even matter because I did everything wrong.”
“Tell me what you did, cause I sure as hell don’t see it.”
“Well, these cupcakes for starters.”
“What ‘bout them cupcakes?”
“They’re bland…” I examined one. “And demonic apparently.”
“Who you tryin’ to impress? The queen? Well guess what, darlin’… the queen’s dead,” she said matter of fact, turning to the side and looking atme with her brow cocked, and a hand on her hip. “And Graham sure didn’t seem to mind when he snuck three of those cupcakes before you even had the cellophane off—neither did your father or Miss Gemma when they followed right behind him. This ‘bout your mama, innit?”
I shrugged.
“I think this whole blasted thing is about trying to get that woman to respect you, and child, I think you wastin’ your breath on her. Some family—no matter how much their blood look like yours—is just sour.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
