Page 88 of Spicy Ever After
Sure, not like every day. But maybe once a month.
And I try to pick up dirty dishes and snack wrappers every night before bed. Sometimes, I’m too tired.
Yes, I’ll admit that a snapshot of my room before 9 p.m. might give certain people—like my mother—a case of hives. But, in my defense?—
“I… have seen her room,” Merrick says evenly, but his gaze flicks to mine, and he winks. “If you swap out the clothes with sports equipment, it looks just like Digger’s room.”
I snort. Digger is one of Merrick’s groomsmen. I think his real name is Douglas. He’s a personal trainer and a competitive bodybuilder. I’ve avoided him in the past because he’s loud and always laughing, which is intimidating, but I suddenly like him a lot more.
Mom shrugs. “Well, Douglas makes a decent living so I suppose he can do what he wants.”
“Wait a minute,” Margaret pipes up, frowning. “He can live how he wants because he earns an income?”
Mom lifts her chin and opens her mouth, but she looks unsure of herself. “I mean… Yes.”
“You don’t earn an income,” Margaret points out.
Score!
I am in grave danger of jumping up and cheering.
Mom’s jaw drops. “That’s different and you know it,” she snaps defensively. “I have run this household since before you were born, and that is a full-time job.”
“And we all agree that has value,” Merrick says quickly while also pressing a hand on my sister’s knee. “But one could argue that navigating the world with high-functioning autism is a full-time job, too.”
Holy fucking shit.
Hot tears are already spilling down my cheeks again.
Merrick gives me a shy smile, and I don’t care that they aren’t officially married yet. This man is my brother. If he ever needs a kidney, he can have one of mine. Hell, if he ever needs to bury a body, I’ll bring a shovel.
By the time I wipe my eyes, Margaret is gazing at her fiancé like she’s ready to give him babies yesterday, and Mom and Dad are staring at me.
Both of them look seriously worried. Like they did the first time I took the car by myself. And I didn’t do that until I was eighteen.
Mom scoffs. “But there’s so much—so much we do for you,” she says, talking to me, finally, instead of about me. “Do you even know?”
I open my mouth to clap back, but Margaret gets there ahead of me.
“Let’s make a list. Make a list and see what’s manageable.”
Mom rolls her eyes, and I suddenly feel about two inches tall. “Fine. Let’s start at six a.m. Waking her up. Making sure she eats breakfast and takes her meds. Doing her laundry. Picking up her prescriptions. Grocery shopping. Planning her meals. Making sure she does her school wor?—”
“Mom… Mom,” Margaret interrupts while I shrink down to nothing. “Do you hear yourself? How much of that stuff is actually necessary?”
Mom scoffs again. “All of it.”
“Hillary,” Dad says gently. “We’ve talked about this.”
Wait. They have?
“You do too much,” he murmurs. “And it’s not good for either one of you.”
Mom’s lips disappear. “Randall,” she grinds out. My mom almost never calls Dad Randall.
“What can be compromised or outsourced?” Merrick says, breaking the tension. He looks back at me. “Hattie, if you had a little apartment with a washer and dryer”—my heart does a little somersault—“could you do your own laundry?”
“Of course. An eight-year-old can do laundry.”
