I haven’t met her yet. I make sure I’m always in my room when she is here. But I hear her making Dad and Renn food whenever they deem mine inedible （which is always）。 I hear her whistle and sing old eighties songs （Duran Duran, Air Supply, Tina Turner） as she takes care of the garden. She always asks Renn if he needs something from the supermarket.
I can tell she is, at the very least, not Snow White’s evil stepmom. I think these small doses of her that I consume without actually interacting with her are helping me come to terms with her presence in our lives. But I’m still worried that this is all for show. That she is putting on an act because she knows I’m listening.
There are other happy sounds. The sound of Renn and his friends laughing, playing video games, or chugging beer on the patio. The sound of Dad’s cackling as he watches The Office reruns every day after work, even though he utters the iconic punch lines right along with Michael Scott. Loki conversing with whomever is downstairs, trying to coax them to throw him a piece of pastrami or two.
And at some point, two weeks after locking myself in my room, the idea of meeting people doesn’t seem quite as hellish as it did before. The trigger is, as always, food.
It is a sunny Saturday. Donna, Dad, and Renn are downstairs, eating breakfast. The scent of fresh sourdough bread, butter, bacon, and beans wafts around the house, making my mouth water. Normally, I wait until everyone leaves before I eat the leftovers. But today, it doesn’t feel like the end of the world to meet the woman Dad has fallen in love with if it means consuming greasy bacon and freshly squeezed orange juice.
I emerge from my room in my Cookie Monster onesie, determined to set any expectations for me low. The stairs creak as I descend them, and dread fills my gut when I think about all the looks I’m about to get.
But when I get to the landing, I see the three of them sitting around the dining table, talking animatedly. They don’t see me at first. Or maybe they’re giving me a few moments to collect myself. Donna is lean and redheaded—like Mom—with a narrow face and a gap in her front teeth. She is not as beautiful as the late Barbie Lawson, which is oddly and pettily comforting, but they both hold the same quality, of women who appear both genuinely nice and yet ooze not-to-be-messed-with vibes.
Dad is the first to notice me. He drops his fork on his plate, blinking, like he’s seeing a ghost. I can tell he has no idea what to say. Donna follows his gaze to see what’s made him freeze. Her face opens up when she sees me.
“Love that onesie,” she says, popping a piece of bacon into her mouth casually. “Where’d you get it?”
You seem to be wanting a lot of things the Lawson women have for themselves, something inside me wants to snap. But then I remind myself I have to play nice, for Dad and Renn.
“My friend Nora bought it for me. Somewhere online, I don’t know.”
She stands up. She is wearing . . . a hot dog onesie? Could that be? With ketchup and mustard and everything. A smile tugs at my lips, but I bite it down quickly. I’m not Renn. I shall not betray Mom because of a simple onesie.
“Where’d you get yours?” I ask, not exactly coldly, but definitely not conversationally.
Dad and Renn exchange looks silently. They’re smiling.
“Renn got it for me for Christmas. I think the store is called Rad and Bad.”
“Is that so?” I turn to look at Renn pointedly, still standing up. “Weird that he managed to get you something cool, ’cause I’ve been getting kitty calendars and scented bath bombs from him for the last four years.”
And I didn’t even have a bath in my Salem apartment.
Renn points at me with his fork, which is full of scrambled eggs and bacon. “That’s because I only put in effort with people I’m tight with, and you were MIA.”
“We used to be tight,” I say, but I don’t feel the overwhelming sadness that comes every time I think about how much has changed in the last half decade. Instead, I am hopeful that we can maybe fix this.
“Right. And now you have to work your way back into my good graces.” Renn downs an entire glass of orange juice before slamming it on the table. “You can start by massaging my feet every night.”
Donna uses her foot to push the chair opposite hers.
“Have a seat, Ever. There’s a plate for you on the table. The sourdough is still fresh.”
“Did you make it?” I scrunch my nose, not making a move.
She rolls her eyes. “Do I look like I have all the time in the world?”