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Quinn sees me eyeballing the reindeer and chuckles. “What did Rudolph ever do to you?” he asks as we walk the long gravel driveway to the front steps.
“His carol sucks. Out of all the Christmas carols, it’s fucking ‘Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ that gets stuck in my head for days. Rudolph needs to go into retirement or stop having such a damn shiny nose,” I add as we climb the marbled stairs.
Quinn laughs at my outburst. “Okay then, how about I just call you the Grinch from now on?”
“One nickname is more than enough, thank you very much,” I reply, leaning forward and ringing the doorbell without hesitation or second thoughts.
As the heavy sound resonates inside, I panic, realizing that I have alerted the occupants of my presence due to my anti-Rudolph rant.
I need time to prepare and maybe do breathing exercises to calm down. But there’s no time for that as the white door opens, revealing a sooky-faced Polly.
As soon as she sees me, she attempts to slam the door shut, but I wedge my boot into the frame to stop it from closing.
“Polly, hear me out,” I say, inching closer and using my arm to hold the door open. “Please.”
She narrows her eyes at me, and her red-painted lips pull into a tight scowl. “Why? So you can shoot me? I don’t think so. Fuck off,” she snarls, still attempting to shut the door.
I use my body weight to stop it from moving an inch.
“Look, you have every right to be mad, and I get that. I’m sorry for pulling a gun on you. That wasn’t cool.”
“You think? I should have you arrested. You’re a fucking psycho!” she cries, but thankfully, her hold on the door slackens.
“Look, I said I’m sorry,” I grit out through clenched teeth. Her attitude is pissing me off.
“So what? Sorry isn’t good enough. Now leave,” she says, feebly attempting to shut the door.
“Mia?” a weak voice asks. “Mia, is that you?”
Both Polly and I freeze when we hear the voice of our mother, and I can’t deny she sounds like shit.
“Polly, is that your sister?” Cynthia questions, her heels clicking on the tiles as she quickly approaches the front door.
Polly doesn’t turn to face her. “Yes, Mother, it’s Mia. The gun-wielding lunatic,” she adds under her breath as she finally opens the door.
I return the stink eye she gives me, but my mouth parts in shock when she has the audacity to flip me off.
Quinn bites his lip in amusement, but all hilarity disappears when Cynthia stands in the open doorway beside Polly.
I actually recoil backward when I see her because she looks like death.
Her long black hair sits in a messy bun. The defiant tufts sticking out at odd angles make her look like she stuck something shiny into an electrical socket. Her clothes are the same ones I saw her in when I was last here, but she’s wearing mismatched heels. One is black, and the other is purple. She has a serious case of raccoon eyes, and her grimy stench is masked under the perfume of cigarettes.
I should take pleasure in seeing her look so damaged, but I don’t.
“Oh, Mia,” she sobs, running toward me and throwing her arms around my neck.
I don’t have time to move, but there’s no way in hell I’m about to return her embrace, so I stand rigid, watching Polly glaring at me over Cynthia’s shoulder.
Once she’s done with the PDA, she lets me go, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a handkerchief.
“I’m so glad you’re here.” She sniffs, dabbing at her eyes.
I grunt in response. I have no idea what to say, seeing as she was the one who asked me to leave when I was here last.
“Come inside, Mom,” Polly says after a few moments of uncomfortable silence. “You’ll catch a cold.”
She steps back, opening the door wider for her to enter.
