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“Jessica!” he screams as he exits of the kitchen, drawing a laugh from me.
The Brussels sprouts are done, so I turn the heat down to warm while searching the vast kitchen for dishes and silverware.
By the time I’m done setting the table and placing the sides onto serving platters, Jessica and Dad are carving the turkey on the center island. He grabs chunks of dark meat with his hands, complaining how hot it is as he pops it into his mouth.
Jessica pours herself a glass of red wine and pours Dad a glass of bourbon. I opt for some water, feeling a headache coming on.
The room is silent while we eat, and I’m surprised to say the turkey is actually delicious, but we’ll have leftovers for a week. The living and dining room cascade in shadows of burnt umber and sienna from the sunset, and I cross my legs under my chair, admiring how the house absorbs all colors. Dad doesn’t seem to notice as he finishes his last bite. Jessica stares at her phone, her plate half full, and I excuse myself to the kitchen as the parents clean up before heading to their rooms for the evening.
3
TAYLOR CROMWELL
Growing up, being a Cromwell meant being part of a small, interracial family living on the outskirts of St. Paul. Mom, Dad, and I would share a meal every evening on our Goodwill dining table, and enjoy the simple things of life. Dad worked as a lineman for many years, always saving money so he could one day put me through college, but I suppose manual labor got old to him after a while, because he called his boss out the blue one afternoon and quit. That was around the same time he met Jessica, according to him, but I suspect the affair started earlier than that. I was old enough to realize the changes in his behavior, then Mom grew distant and depressed, which scared me. As time went on, and her marriage changed, so did she.
But now, the name Cromwell has a much different connotation than it did back then. Today, being a Cromwell means living in the suburbs just outside the city, being a millionaire, and being a hockey family. And somewhere in the distant past, eating her cereal, rocking herself to sleep to the local news… is Mom. She still has that Goodwill table in her apartment, but it’s covered in dust now from neglect, which is oddly symbolic or our shared past in a way.
A sound to my left has me looking up as I put away the last of the clean dishes and leftovers. Elijah walks in, and he’s wasted, stumbling to the fridge, either ignoring me or not seeing me as he pulls out a beer.
Like he needs it.
I move to the living room with my glass of water and scroll Instagram, pleased to see that I have over a thousand likes on my most recent photo with King. It’s been a while since I’ve posted on my OnlyFans, but I’ve made a mental note to get back to it.. I never show anything too explicit, , but just enough to earn some cash from horny boys with nothing better to spend it on. They like the sexy snake angle, so I lean into it.
Elijah walks into the living room, clearly trying to act sober as he drops down into the suede armchair across from me. I try my best to ignore him and stare at my phone, but now I can’t concentrate on anything in front of me.
“Hey,” he slurs.
“Hey.” I give him a half-assed smile, taking not of how his dark-brown eyes glower at me.
I can feel his stare burning a hole through my chest. “What?”
He folds his arms across his chest, slumping deeper into his seat. “Just thinking about how you don’t deserve to be here.”
“Excuse me?” I lower my phone down. If he wants my full attention, he has it.
“You fucking heard me.” The veins in his neck bulge when those sharp words leave his mouth.
It’s been forever since we’ve had an actual conversation. The brief run-in in my bedroom with him and Levi the morning after I arrived hardly counted. But this isn’t quite how I imagined our first chat after so long would go either. Maybe him being drunk is a good thing, though. I never like it when people beat around the bush, shower each other with false niceties to cover what theyreallywant to say. So, I suppose we’ll cut right to the chase.
He stares as I set my phone on the end table, keeping my eyes trained directly on him. “Okay, then tell me, Elijah. Why don’t Ideserveto be here?”
“Cut the bullshit,” he snaps. “We both know your dad’s a fucking gold digger.”
A laugh slips out. Mostly because he’s not wrong. Does Dad enjoy that Jessica’s loaded? Absolutely, but he’s also a genuinely nice person when he wants to be. He’s also funny, he dotes on Jessica like she’s a princess, and the man does virtually anything she asks of him. For these reasons, I don’t believe he deserves to be disrespected in his own house.
“You think that’s funny?” Elijah snarls.
“No, but I think you’re wasted, and I also think you’re being a dick, so…”
He leans forward in the chair, resting both elbows on his knees as he glares. “What the hell did I ever see in you? Only a fucking idiot would ever date your lonely, boring ass.””
“Oh, no! You think I’m boring?” I whine, pretending to pout. “I’ll just go buy myself something pretty with your mom’s money to make myself feel better.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuckyou!”I yell back. “Just admit that you have absolutely no explanation for why you’re entitled to live here, and I’m not.”
He stands, and I match his energy, immediately regretting it as he towers over me by at least five inches. I’m tired of being the victim of toxic masculinity, though. And if I want to start over here, I’ll have to start standing up for myself.
