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In love with a murderer.How does that make me any better than my father?
Shaking off the thought, I move forward in line, looping my arm through Carter’s. “And I thought I asked you to go easy on drinking today.”
She shrugs. “Jesus, Jules. It’s a fuckingbaptism, not Judgment Day.”
“Actually, it’s a christening.”
“Who cares? The point is, it’s fucking boring. If everyone here isn’t plastered by the time they serve cake, it’ll be a miracle.”
“The only way they’ll be plastered is if they’ve snuck in miniature flasks like you.”
Snorting, she nods, taking the flask back out; she unscrews the cap and tips it up to her lips, downing a large gulp. “And we all know the citizens of King’s Trace are such paragons of virtue.”
Something breaks in her voice, a thread tearing that I can’t find the end to, and I can’t help wondering if the stress of being poor and practically excommunicated from her family is starting to take its toll.
There’s no chance to ask, though, because in the next second, she scrubs a hand over her face and plasters on a wide smile and squares her shoulders as we approach the ornate metal doors. They’re pushed in, the happy little family poised at the entrance; after the ceremony, we’d all left the hall to allow cleanup and Elia’s men to set up banquet tables, technical blasphemy in the eyes of Father O’Leary, but proof that even your greatest beliefs can be sullied with the right payout.
A hand wraps around my bicep, holding me in place; I jerk against Carter, the unyielding grip making me stumble. “Juliet.”
I cringe at that voice, hate the way it makes me shrivel inside despite all the progress I think I’ve made.
Whirling around, I come face-to-face with the saggy sack of bones that is my mother. Anger simmers low in my veins, a heat just waiting to boil over, as I take in the age spots and wrinkles, the yellow glint of her updated dye-job, the puffiness of her lips that tells me she very recently had work done.
According to Luca, she’s been in town since she approached me that day in the cemetery, and this is the first I’m seeing of her. Makes perfect sense. It’s not like she came back for me in the first place.
“Mother,” I say, scanning her from tip to toe. “What are you doing here?”
She rolls her eyes, clear blue pools mirroring mine and Caroline’s. Except there’s something hidden in their depths, something I can’t quite place, a distant secrecy buried so deep it’s become a part of her. “You didn’t honestly think I’d miss my grandchild’schristening, did you?”
“Well, you missed the first one,” Carter says under her breath.
“And, you weren’t invited.”
Smiling down at me, she reaches out and grips my shoulder, patting it with a calloused palm. I can’t remember her handseverfeeling worn, and I shake her off. Shake off the tiny seed of thought that accompanies her presence and threatens the loose knot holding together my sanity; the idea that she’s changed.
Because even though Iknowshe’s not here for me, and Iknowshe hasn’t, I can’t stop the flutter in my heart from attempting to morph into a full-blown earthquake. Can’t stop thinking about how much easier everything would be if she would justgrow, if my father was still alive to atone for his sins and she wanted to make actual amends.
Then I wouldn’t have to deal with all the guilt and shame of holding out hope to be loved by people wholly incapable of returning the favor. Maybe it’d be easier to give out in return, if I wasn’t in constant fear of being taken advantage of.
Maybe that’s what drew me to Kieran in the first place; morbid fascination with being the object of someone’s all-consuming affections. How he takes what he wants, no questions asked, and doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t retract his feelings or attach conditions.
The Devil might not have a soul, might be criminally dangerous and dipped in sin, but he makes up for it with a bleeding heart.
My mother has no redeeming qualities. She’s a succubus, taking without thought and never giving anything back. Never caring about the lives she destroys in the process.
I used to wonder how she managed to stay with my father, even at a point when it became obvious the only thing he cared about was his political career. Turns out, they had more in common than any of us ever knew.
Her mouth presses into a thin line when I step away from her, fingernails scraping my skin as her hand drops to her side. Clearing her throat, she brushes a strand of hair back from her face, eyes darting to the front of the line as we advance on it. “Good thing St. Francis is a public church, then, isn’t it? And that I’ve got an in with Father O’Leary.”
“Elia’s not gonna let you in,” I say.
“Oh yeah? What’s he going to do, kick out a defenseless, middle-aged woman? Shoot me in front of the whole town?” She laughs, the sound crude and short. “Face it, darling, but your knight in shining armor doesn’t hold as much weight here as you all seem to think. Money does a lot for people in King’s Trace, but so does reputation.”
“After what Daddy did, after how you left with no word about anything that went down, do you honestly think there’s anyone in this congregation that would defend you?” I gesture toward the nosy couple in front of us as the woman glances back from the corner of her eye. As if I can’t see that movement. “You’re crazier than I remember.”
“Ah, but the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?” Her eyes harden, hatred swirling in her irises, making my chest feel tight. “I heard you started therapy. Good for you, darling, considering how your mental health has stupendously stunted your growth.”
“That’s fucking rude,” a lilted voice comes from behind me, and I turn to see Fiona standing there, arms crossed tightly across her chest. She glares at my mother so hard I start to wonder if she’s trying to make her combust.
