Kiss and Don't Tell(96)

“Yeah, I know, because you didn’t get along with my mom.” There’s a bout of confidence that surges through me the minute I step into this house and I don’t know if it’s from Pacey pumping me up, or if it’s because I seem to have the upper hand over Uncle RJ, but I seem to be bypassing my filter.

“It wasn’t, uh . . .” He clears his throat. “It wasn’t that I didn’t get along with her. She just made a choice I didn’t agree with.”

“Marrying my dad, I know. She told me. But she told me that she still sent you pictures and updates about me. That was kind of her, don’t you think?”

“It was.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. Why, uh, why are you here?”

“I was in the area. Thought I would say hello.”

“Right, right.” He nods and looks at the ground. My eyes wander to the fireplace and I spot the trophy. My mouth waters at the sight of it. “Marisol—my . . . new wife—she’s not here right now.”

“Oh, that’s okay. It’s just nice to see family, you know, after I lost both my mom and my dad.”

He nods some more and then clears his throat. “Yes . . . uh, can I get you a drink?”

“That would be delightful,” I say, happy that I didn’t have to ask. Because, even from being here for just a few moments, I know one thing for sure—this guy doesn’t deserve my time or energy. I considered talking with him, but there doesn’t seem to be any sort of remorse in his eyes for how he treated my mom. Therefore, the heist is on.

He turns toward the kitchen and says, “Make yourself at home.”

Don’t mind if I do . . .

I step into the living room, and he says, “Oh, please take off your shoes. The carpets are new.”

Crap. That’s a bump in the road to my escape.

I kick off my flats and step into the living room. Now is the time, as he moves into the kitchen to get me something to drink. Run up to the trophy, grab it, and run.

It’s right there.

Unpolished.

Old.

Something I’m surprised he still has, but then again, it seems as though he doesn’t get rid of anything besides the carpet. That he can part with. I’m almost nervous to see what the old carpet looked like in order for him to get rid of it.

I move toward the fireplace and scan the trophy. Yup, that’s the one.

I move in closer.

Closer.

“Do you want water or milk?” Uncle RJ asks, peeking his head in, startling me just as I was about to reach for the trophy.

“Both,” I answer.

“Both?” he asks, confused.

“Uh, yeah. I like them to be mixed together.” The thought of milk and water mixed together actually makes bile form in the back of my throat, but I’m not as quick on my feet as I would’ve hoped. What host only has milk or water to offer a guest?

“Oh, that’s an, uh, an interesting combination.”

“Tastes like breastmilk, watered down like that.”

What on earth am I saying? Breastmilk? Why? Why is that what just came out of my mouth?

I’m nervous. I’m so close to capturing the trophy, but I’m choking, I can feel it. My muscles are seizing on me, my legs are turning into stone.

“Breastmilk?” Uncle RJ says.

“Yeah, nothing like a good cup of breastmilk,” I say, wringing my hands together. I literally want to die from that answer.

“That’s confusing,” he says from the kitchen.

“Don’t judge until you try it.” I edge closer so I’m right next to the trophy. “Have any pickled beets? They go swimmingly with the breastmilk.”

“I don’t.”

“Triscuits?” I move my hand up to the mantle.

“No, unfortunately.”

“Corn nuts? Ranch flavor? Delectable with breastmilk.”

“No, I don’t.”

I bring my hand to the base of the trophy, and I swear the moment I touch it the sun shines through the window and angels sing.

The Holy Grail.

It’s in my grasp. I pull it off the mantle and hold it out as I stare down at the prized possession about which my mom would speak so fondly. This . . . trophy.

This piece of plastic.

It was so important to her.

Her crowning achievement.

“The best I can offer you is tortilla chips with your faux breastmilk.” He steps into the living room with a tray of watered-down milk and a bowl of tortilla chips. “What are you doing with that?”

I look him in the eyes, then back down at the trophy. Then back at him.

Now or never.

I clutch the trophy to my chest like a football, hold my hand out for blocking, shout, “See you, sucker!” and I charge out of the living room, like a bull straight out of the gate, bypassing my shoes and going right for the door.

“Hey, come back,” Uncle RJ shouts.

But I don’t look back. I throw the door open and yell, “Start the car. Start the car!” Feeling like an absolute banshee, I sprint down the walkway in my bare feet, swatting at overgrown branches that attempt to stop me.

“Come back here,” Uncle RJ says, hot on my tail.

“Never!” I shout back. “Vengeance will be mine.”