The Hearts We Sold(6)

“I’ll be fine,” said Dee. Her insides clenched at the thought of Gremma following her.

“See ya in a week,” said Gremma brightly. Dee pulled together a smile and waved.

“Don’t break too many hearts,” she said, and Gremma laughed, revving the engine. The high beams swept away, and for a moment Dee stood in complete darkness. Her fingers gripped the worn nylon handle of her duffel bag, stuffed full with dirty laundry. She hesitated, rummaging around in her pocket for the worn house key. Should she knock? Or just walk in? But before she could make the decision, she heard footsteps on linoleum and the door was being pulled open and she found herself being swept up in a hug.

Mrs. Moreno looked nothing like her daughter. Blond and wiry-thin, with worn edges around her lips. Dee always thought they looked ridiculous in pictures together—even their smiles looked nothing alike, with Dee’s tight-lipped little mouth and Mrs. Moreno’s exuberant grin.

“Deirdre,” said Mrs. Moreno, arms tight around Dee. Dee didn’t bother to correct her. “How are you? Was that your friend driving away? You should’ve told her to stay—we have plenty for dinner.”

That was something, at least. There’d be fresh food in the house.

“She’s meeting her own parents,” Dee lied quickly. Her heartbeat quickened and a sweat broke out along her back. The sweet scent of her mother’s rose-and-amber perfume barely covered the dry smell of ashes. When Mrs. Moreno released her, Dee felt a moment of both relief and yearning. That small, young part of her longed to step back into her mother’s embrace, to take refuge there.

“Your father is just putting on a roast,” said Mrs. Moreno, guiding Dee into the house. As if she didn’t know how to walk inside. As if she hadn’t lived here since she’d been born. “He’ll be so glad to see you. How’s school?”

Stepping over the threshold took effort. Dee resisted the urge to scratch at her neck. She did that when she was nervous. She’d spent most of the seventh grade wearing scarves to cover the marks.

Old habits, she thought, and forced her hands into her pockets.

“School’s fine,” she said. “I think I did well on my midterms.” Already, she could feel herself falling into her role—trying to be the best possible version of herself, as if she could keep anything bad from happening by simply being cheerful. “Mind if I drop this stuff off in my room?”

She’d learned this dance long ago; the steps were polite and careful. Smiles and nods. Take luggage to room. Spend five minutes in room staring at one’s self in the mirror and trying to perfect a realistic smile. Go downstairs. More hugs. More pleasantries. Dinner. Maybe a movie. Spend entire movie staring at the screen instead of the other people in the living room. Claim early bedtime.

Dee knew her role—be quiet but not too quiet, smile until her cheeks hurt, gently steer the conversation to casual, light things. She would spend the next few days working on the house; her parents would expect it. Well, actually, her mother would tell her to stop fussing with the fridge and tell her all about the boys in her classes and had Dee met anyone nice? And how was that roommate of hers, the one with the red hair and all those adorable teddy bears? Her father, on the other hand, would probably hand her a scrub brush and say something about finding mold in the bathroom.

She dropped her bags onto her bed. The air was stale, still, as if no one had opened the door since she’d left after Christmas break. The room held all the trappings of her childhood—toys crammed in an old chest, clothes hanging in the closet, ticket stubs from movies she’d thought she might put in a scrapbook. But she had never ended up making that scrapbook, so instead the papers cluttered together on the edge of her desk. There was a daddy longlegs perched on a cobweb in the corner.

Dee gazed up at the spider for a long moment, then decided to face the inevitable. She drifted down the stairs, feeling aimless and uncertain.

Her mother was nowhere to be found, but her father was in the kitchen.

People always said that Deirdre must be a daddy’s girl because she looked so much like her father—light brown skin, dark hair, a tendency toward stockiness. But Dee couldn’t see it herself. She was all those things, yes. But she had none of her father’s hard-earned strength, the scars on his hands from years of handling lawn mowers and shovels. He had begun his own landscaping business when he was in his twenties and worked his way into a decently comfortable life. Now he had employees (whom he constantly complained about), an office, and better health insurance just in case a weed-whacker tried to take a finger.

He always put her in mind of one of those bulls from the rodeo—thick through the shoulders and waist, all corded muscle and huffing breaths.

Mr. Moreno stood by the stove, hovering over a steaming pot. “Broccoli?” asked Dee.

“Potatoes,” said Mr. Moreno. He glanced up. “It’s been a while.”

He hugged her. This time the hug smelled like sweat and cut grass. At the scent, that knot in her chest twisted a little tighter. Mr. Moreno released her and took a step back, surveying his daughter with a keen eye. Dee held herself rigidly—shoulders back and chin high. Her best self, she thought. Strong and smart, still wearing her Brannigan shirt with the logo on it. A good student. A successful daughter. Someone a parent could be proud of.

“You’ve gained weight,” he said. “You aren’t taking a PE class this semester?”