The Watcher I Wed

Chapter 7: Hives and Honey

Family dinner loomed like a thunderhead on the horizon—Mom's "welcome to the nest" tradition. Evelyn’s pot roast bubbled slowly on the stove, rich gravy simmering, while the boxes from the attic hung tantalizingly as after-dinner bait. Caleb drove us out in silence, his hand resting steadily on my knee as if it could anchor the swirling tension. The smell of cedar from his hoodie clung to the cab, while a glove lay buried deep in the trunk, like a dirty secret.

"It'll be fine, Mia," he murmured at a stoplight, his thumb circling soothing patterns on my jeans. "Vic's just... Vic. All smiles and sales nonsense. Keep it light—we're out after pie."

Vic. The memory of his laugh, the way he could seamlessly turn a conversation into a joke, made my throat tighten. I nodded numbly, feeling my hives prickling up my wrist under the sleeve— invisible, but itching like fire.

The house squatted unchanged in its Ohio suburb, just like all the others—a façade of flaking cream siding, and Mom's chain-smoke haze billowing a greeting from the screen door. "My baby girl! And the new mister—come in, come in!" Her hug was bone-thin and fleeting, her pill-sweet breath whispering "proud" like a mantra. The table was set, mismatched as always: roast steaming, fork-tender; mashed potatoes lumped like clouds; strawberry-glazed pie cooling innocently on the windowsill, its fruit gleaming mockingly.

Vic rolled in fashionably late—boat shoes scuffing the stoop and a wolfish grin splitting wide beneath his salt-and-pepper hair. He wrapped Caleb in a tight bear hug that echoed with claps on his back. "Nephew-in-law! Heard about the courthouse vows—classy, real edgy. No fuss, huh?" His gaze slid to me, lingering a moment too long, as he patted my elbow in a way that felt all too familiar. "You look... ripe as ever, Mia. Still got that summer glow holding on."

Lena crashed the party fashionably late too, tossing off a "mechanic meltdown" excuse with ease. Her tattoos were hidden beneath a chunky sweater, and her eyes shot daggers at Vic's back as she air-kissed Mom. Just then, Tommy's text vibrated silently in my pocket: Ditch the dinner now. He’s there—a trap to avoid. I ignored it, deleted the message, my heart thudding.

Food passed in a forced rhythm—forks clinking against plates, laughter bubbling brittle over Mom's tales of my "wild phase" (shoplifting tags and midnight curfews), punctuated by Vic’s realtor boasts about "flipping fixer-uppers like pancakes." Caleb deflected smoothly, his calm demeanor landing like butter. "Pass the rolls?" he'd say, his hand brushing mine under the table, thumb slipping secretively.

When the pie was sliced generously, the strawberry filling glimmered innocently beneath the crust. The first bite bloomed heavenly—a juicy burst, sugar crust crunch—until suddenly, my throat closed up and hives raced hot up my neck, red welts blooming like accusations.

"s**t—strawberry? The whole damn pie?" Lena bolted upright, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. She yanked an EpiPen from her purse (always carried for my "episodes," a precaution after one bad cone at sixteen). She jabbed it into my thigh quickly through my jeans, the hiss of air whooshing in relief, but my vision was spotted with black stars, and my breath whistled shallow.

Caleb's face blurred in panic as his hands framed my face, cool against my skin. "Breathe, Mia—hospital, now—" Vic's hand landed on mine across the table, grip cool and steady. "Allergies acting up again? Just like old times, eh? Remember that park picnic, kiddo? You toughed it out."

Old times. The memory of his laugh echoed. Don’t stop.

Lena shoved his arm off roughly, her voice sharp like a whip, "Back up, asshole—give her space." Chaos ensued—Mom fluttered over with napkins, while Caleb scooped me up and bundled me into the car. The ride to the ER blurred past through fogged windows, the Benadryl dripping into my vein, a slow mercy cooling the fire.

We finally arrived home late, the moon high and mocking. Caleb tucked me gently under the covers, fairy lights winking softly in the darkness. "Never again—no more Vic, no more of that stuff. We're done." His kiss lingered on my forehead, cedar scent faint but familiar, as his hand rested protectively on my belly, a vow of safety.

But outside, the trash bin waited beneath the porch light—a pie tin scraped nearly clean, but with crust flecked with white powder, faint and glittering like snow. Vic's "gift" of meds, the nerve-slackers he'd slipped me back in my teens, "for the jitters," was handed over so casually.

Dawn crept in, his phone buzzing softly on the nightstand—a peach blossom blooming on the screen: Sweet dreams of the slice? Next one’s for the baby—keep it warm.