Dirty Little Secrets

Ch. 7: The Plastic Bouquet

EMERY

The long stem of the cigarette crackles and burns as I perch uncomfortably on the bathroom counter, rows upon rows of cookie-cutter houses in my peripheral. Toxic, cancerous, and liberating smoke fills my lungs and I hold my breath so it seeps deep into my organs. I blow out the smoke, tainting my parent's idyllic neighborhood.

Scooting over to the edge of the counter, I extend my leg and turn up the dial of the standalone fan I smuggled inside the bathroom. I'd escape through the window if I could but last summer my father installed steel security bars on the perimeter of the bottom floor. What an idiot. Such a waste of money. It's true. The last time Chesterfield had a B&E was in '78. That's because no one would willingly spend more than ten minutes in this fucking town. Maybe the bars are meant to keep people in versus out.

"Emery! Honey!" Mom calls out. "Are you alright in there? Dinner's ready!"

"Coming!" I holler back, putting out the cigarette on the side of the house and flushing the evidence down the toilet. Better spray up, bitch. Can't have mommy finding out. I douse the room with air freshener before brushing my teeth twice and spritzing on a copious amount of perfume. Checking my breath, I tilt my head, running my hand down my light brown sweater dress. Why did I buy this? It has no form, no shape, nothing special. You literally look like a turd. Nice. Thanks for that. Your words, not mine.

"Emery!"

"I said I'm coming!" Ignoring my inner voice, I grab my purse and head toward the dining room. The table is set with crisp white linens, catalog-ordered dishware, and a plastic bouquet centerpiece. My mother says real flowers are a waste of money. They die. These live forever. Seeing as my parents have had the same arrangement for over a decade, her point is valid. "Sorry about that."

"When you gotta go, you gotta go," Tom says, wiggling his brows. "No shame in that."

Ew. "I wasn't—" I sigh, sitting down in front of my mother. "Never mind."

"So, Emery," Mom dishes out the casserole onto everyone's plate while Dad distributes dinner rolls, "How's everything going at work? Tom tells us that you were recently passed up for a promotion?"

I shoot Tom a concealed glare. Fucking blabbermouth. "I wasn't passed up," I state, digging my knife into the butter dish. "I withdrew my application." Liar.

"You withdrew it?" Tom asks, frowning. "But you said—"

"Butter anyone?" I ask, aggressively grabbing the dish and holding it over the table. "Hmm?"

"You withdrew it?" Dad asks.

"Watch the butter, Emery," Mom comments at the same time. "Remember what the doctor said, right?"

God help me. I think you're on your own with this one, babe. Breathe. A topic change is needed. A-fucking-SAP. "I saw a moving truck on the way up here. New neighbors?" Yes. A safe segue. Shine the spotlight away. Always away. "Are they nice?"

Dad snorts. "You mean the truck outside The Linchfields?"

"I guess?"

"Oh, the Linchfields aren't moving, honey," Mom chimes in, lowering her voice to a gossiping level. "Their oldest daughter is going through a divorce, that poor thing. Her husband, or should I say ex-husband, kicked her out after he found her in bed with the pool boy." Oh god, it's a fucking real-life telenovela. "And now she's back in her childhood bedroom, isn't that sad?"

"I hope the sex was good at least," I mutter into my bread roll.

"What was that?" Mom asks.

"I said I hope she's doing okay at least."