make me go," he mumbled. "I swear, I will stab myself if I have to put a suit coat on today."
"One step at a time, all right? How about something more than underwear?"
"I'll consider it," he said.
I wasn't sure but it felt like he might've kissed my hair then—right when his mother walked into the bedroom and said, "That's not Millie."
Ash
Ash
My mother was kind enough to sound relieved as she said, "That's not Millie."
I appreciated that as much as I could appreciate anything that invited my mother and sister into my bedroom at this unholy hour.
I didn't bother separating my lips from Zelda's hair or loosening my hold on her shoulders as I fired an irritable look at them. I'd hoped it would keep my mother in the doorway, one hand flat on her chest and the other gripping the doorjamb as if she needed its support during this difficult time.
My sister blinked away, her lips folded together and her cheeks pink with amusement as she said, "Nope. It's not."
And that was the final push my mother required to march across the room and introduce herself to my—my—
What the fuck was Zelda?
Oh. Right. She was my assistant.
The one who let me use her as a pillow last night. The one who held my hand while doctors manipulated my bones. The one who produced an egg sandwich from her purse and insisted I hire her at thirty thousand feet.
"Ash," my mother prompted with that wide-eyed, unblinking falcon glare. The special edition mother glare known to beat the truth out of children—even the grown ones—without lifting a finger. "Please explain to me how you came to be bruised up and down and in a sling, right after introducing me to your lovely friend."
"We're not friends." I said this with my cheek on her head. I said this with my arm around her shoulders like she was my life preserver. I said this with a sharp edge in my voice as if I found the suggestion more offensive than the truth. As for the truth, I didn't know what the fuck that was. "We're—I mean, we're—"
"Zelda," she said, meeting my mother's outstretched hand. "I'm Zelda and it's very nice to meet you, Mrs. Santillian."
"Please call me Diana," she replied. My mother met my eyes with a smile that could power the entire city of Boston for a week.
I held Zelda closer. I didn't want to share her. Which was ridiculous. Fucking ridiculous. It was probably a result of the pills. And Jesus Christ, the whiskey. Pills and whiskey and had I eaten in the past twenty-four hours? Probably not.
"Now, Zelda," my mother continued, her glee as restrained as my rising panic, "tell me your last name. I need to get it over to the calligrapher. They're working on place cards this week and—"
"Everybody get out," I yelled. I could not deal with calligraphers and place cards right now. "Out. Now."
My sister laughed as she stepped into the hall. "This lasted significantly longer than I'd expected."
My mother backed away but continued lavishing Zelda with her adoring gaze. "We'll wait for you to get dressed, honey. I'm still waiting to hear about your injuries though it does seem Zelda has you well in hand."
If you only knew.
I was too busy scowling at my mother and begging her with my eyes to shut the hell up to realize Zelda was sliding out of my hold. "I should really"—she waved at her wrinkled clothes and ran a hand through her dark hair—"yeah, Ashville. I should really."
With more audience than I wanted for anything in my life, I reached out and twisted her t-shirt around my hand, yanking her back where I wanted her. "No, you shouldn't."
"She definitely isn't Millie," my mother loud-whispered to Magnolia.
Zelda cut a glance to the side, at my family. "Who is Millie?"
"No, not at all," my sister agreed.
"I told you," I replied, my knuckles brushing Zelda's belly, "no one."
"So happy to be rid of her," my mother said, no longer troubling herself to lower her voice. "She was such a cold girl."
"Someone," Zelda countered, tipping her head toward the onlookers.
"Oh, yeah, very cold," Magnolia replied. "Pretty sure her vagina doubles as an icebox. There's a half-empty pint of Phish Food in there. Some freezer-burned chicken breasts and a sack of peas too."
"Not anymore. Not to me," I promised, shifting us to block the commentary with my back. "Ignore them."
"Okay," she conceded, glancing down at my grip on her shirt. "If she's no one,