Beach Day

26: Dinner and Other Acts of Cowardice

Sunday dinners always made her nervous. There were a thousand landmines to keep in mind. Even now, after everything, it's the same.

It's stupid. She tells herself it's stupid. She faced her parents in a nightmare with her friends by her side. She fought Oneiron and came out on top both times. She experienced her own death-by-magic-car. Her body becoming amphibious, her eyes on the prize of rot and ruin, the ever-present memory of the things she has laid witness to, dying and almost dying over and over again— she has seen and done so many things, carrying all her petty little fears of not being liked with her the entire time. She's Tiff-Motherfucking-Sheridan. Why the hell is this so terrifying?

Standing in front of the door with the knowledge that her parents are somewhere beyond it isn't going to help anything. But, then— she doesn't have to eat.

"Just go in." She whispers it to herself under her breath. It doesn't mean anything. She doesn't do anything.

She walks away, heads around the side of the house. This is stupid. She came here with Matt. She changed into jeans and her button-up with the sleeves rolled in the car. She pushes them up again, trudges around the side of the house, and tries not to stop at the window. Stupid, stupid, stupid; she looks through the dirty screen to pristine counters. Plates piled high with foods she was familiar with as a child. She was stupid then and she's stupid now. She misses the taste of raw turnips. She wants nothing more than to never eat them again.

Her stomach clenches, reminding her: she forgot to eat again. That's whatever. She spots her mother, in her dress past her knees and her hair down and loose; she catches a glimpse of her rounding the corner out of the kitchen. Tiff presses herself against the wall, hoping she's invisible against the bricks. Whatever they tried to do to the memories of her is close enough. She isn't even sure why she's here, when she knew she wouldn't be welcome anyway. She isn't sure she can back out now, though.

She times it perfectly: ducks down when her mother lifts the glass dish of scalloped potatoes and cheese in oven mitt hands, army-crawls on the dirt and gravel between tin trash cans and untouched aloe pants, pops up on the other side when she's sure nobody can see her. There isn't anyone close enough to look at her through the fence.

The point of coming here was to clear the air with her grandfather. She knows that. She can't talk to him if she doesn't go inside and seek him out. She knows that, too.

She wants to think of someone who would call her a coward for this. The issue is, that's impossible. There's nobody to call to mind. Who wouldn't stand by her in her fear, no matter how pathetic it makes her feel? Drake would burn this place to the ground. He would get it. And Betty would never call her a coward anyway. Darius would just give her an understanding nod or assure her it never mattered anyway. He does that, sometimes: just a nod. Just an acknowledgement. He was there in the nightmare, with Drake and Eliza. He knows how hard it is for her, right? They all know why she prefers to focus on the donkeys they burned or on the Big Bopper's wife than on the other parts of that night.

Even Krista would understand. Even her one normal enemy would get it, and she would call Tiff a coward for anything. Tripping in the hallway and not letting the blood run is a coward move, after all.

So why does she still feel it? If she wouldn't call them cowards for this, and they wouldn't call her the same, then why is it the pealing bell in the tower of her mind?

She hits her head gently against the back of the house. Brick digs into her scalp. She needs a haircut. She should cut it again later.

Or she should leave it long, until they leave. She has to maintain the lie, right? God, she made a mistake. God, what's wrong with her?