Page 2 of Pretty Dead Things

A few weeks back, when it was just Hannah and me working the last shift together, I heard the faint sound of music coming through the door of the walk-in freezer. I pressed my ear up against the cold steel and listened. It was Hannah, singing. And it sounded beautiful. Her voice made my ribs tingle, made emotions I couldn’t name fill my throat with sandpaper grit. After closing, I had her covering all my favorite songs. She only ever sings for me when the shop is empty, never in front of people she doesn’t know well. It feels wrong, her hiding her talent away, like she’s stealing something from the world.

Last week, she let it slip she once dreamt of being on Broadway, but when she tried out for choir freshman year, things didn’t go so well.I froze up like I was on bad Wi-Fi. Just stood with my brain buffering right there in the auditorium.

“You want me to overcome my stage fright by getting up on a stage?” Hannah asks now.

“It’s just walking.” I shove the papers back to her chest, then hand her a pen. “Walking in a dress and smiling. Anyone can do that.”

“I’ll do it with you, Han,” Olivia says, sucking in her lips to hide her smile. Olivia is like one of those flowers that only grows in the shade. She’s pretty, actually, if you ever take the time to look at her. But she styles herself like she’s trying to vanish—her dark-blond hair a veil she never quite lifts, wearing baggy T-shirts and opting for stiff black slacks at work instead of the second-skin leggings the other girls and I wear.

“Well, look at that,” I say, hand on my hip, clicking my tongue behind my teeth. “Olivia has the balls. Do you?”

Hannah sighs in a way that makes Olivia and me know we’ve won her over.

Olivia squeals, fingers steepled under her nose. “This’ll be so fun.” She twirls around and grabs three one-ounce measuring cups, the ones we use for energy boosters in the smoothies. She fills themwith pineapple juice and passes them out. “To the Lone Star Princess Pageant,” she says, raising her makeshift shot glass.

Hannah rolls her eyes. “What the hell.” She clinks her glass to ours and downs it like she knows what she’s doing. “I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?”

CHAPTER THREECAT

The robot vacuum follows me, dutiful as a cocker spaniel, into the kitchen, sweeping up a stray muffin crumb, a dried leaf that must have tracked in on somebody’s shoe. It hums along the baseboard, nosing every corner like it’s looking for trouble. The white granite countertops gleam to a shine that reflects the pendant lights mounted to the high ceilings.

It’s nearly 6PM. I have a few minutes. I spin the carousel of coffee pods, choose a pecan blend, and start up the Keurig. Then, I scan the fridge. The glass shelves are clean, lined with a variety of flavored sparkling waters, coffee creamers, fresh-pressed juices, plastic packages of blueberries and blackberries and pre-cut strawberries. In the door, there is only a half-bottle of champagne from an event earlier today, resealed with an airtight stopper. While the Keurig groans and spits the last of the coffee, I open the champagne, my heart skipping a second at the delightful pop, the nose-tickling scent. I pour it down the sink, then toss the bottle in the hidden pull-out trash.

Just as I’m stirring vanilla soy creamer into my coffee, I hear the beep-beep-beep-whir of the front door pad.

Mark comes in first. He’s wearing a button-up that at first glance fits him just right, shows off the broadness of his shoulders, but the bottom few buttons cling to his belly. I like the way he’s filled out over the years, as if the generous waistline better suits his generous nature. He flashes me a half-tipped smile, carrying a cream-coloredcanvas bag. Something about the tie matching his blue eyes makes me think, absurdly, of our wedding. Mark’s a contractor. He usually wears a polo and jeans on the job. He must have been meeting with investors today. But maybe it isn’t the tie that’s transported me. Maybe it’s that tilted grin, the look that lets me know I have an ally, that we are in this together.

Shuffling in behind him is our seventeen-year-old daughter, Olivia. She’s still wearing her Smoothie Palace uniform, and her dark-blond sheet of hair covers her face, which is bent over her phone as she types furiously. A pink duffel bag hangs from her shoulder—her old dance bag, with her name embroidered in glittering gold thread, the letters frayed from wear and tear.

Tonight is the first night Olivia is staying over with me. Mark and I agreed to take it slow this time. For six months we’ve only met up for lunch or dinner, working our way up to this.

“Hey, baby,” I say. “You ready for tonight?”

Olivia doesn’t respond.

Mark elbows her gently in the side and points to his ear. She pulls back her long hair to remove the AirPods.

“Hey, Mom,” she says quietly, averting her eyes. It makes me think of when she was little, when she used to hide behind my legs whenever I introduced her to someone new. Only, now I’m the stranger.

“I ordered Thai,” I say. “Green curry with tofu. That’s your favorite, right?”

Her eyes flick to her father and back to me. “Did Dad tell you that?”

“Olivia,” Mark says, warning.

There was a time when I was the one who knew all her preferences—dino nuggets and french fries, but only the crinkle-cut kind, the red plate, but the blue spoon.It’s fine, I mouth to Mark. She has every right to be difficult.

I push past it, keeping the brightness in my voice. “I thought after dinner, we could put on a movie, pop some popcorn. What do you think?”

From behind her hair, Olivia’s eyes scan slowly around the room. “What’s with the apples?”

We all look to the heavy marble bowl atop the oak dining table, filled with glistening Granny Smiths. “I thought they looked nice.”

“Are they fake?”

“Well, yes,” I say.

Olivia hikes the bag higher onto her shoulder. “Is there anywhere I’m allowed to put my things?”