ROYAL by Winter Renshaw

my niece yelling,
“Nana! Papa!” steals all of our attention from Brooks.
    “Hey, Monkey.” Dad scoops Haven into his arms. “How’s my
favorite troublemaker?”
    Haven’s white-blonde hair falls in her face, but it doesn’t
hide her ear-to-ear grin. She lunges for my mom next, nearly falling out of my
dad’s arms. Mom catches her and gives her a squeeze. We all miss her since The
Bitch won primary custody last year. It was a bullshit move, and between my dad
and Derek, it never should’ve happened, but the judge assigned to their case
was notorious for siding with mothers.
    “I’m so sorry.” A sweet nurse in pink scrubs walks in, hands
clasped in a prayer position. “We typically don’t allow small children on this
floor, and there’s a limit of three guests at a time in these rooms.”
    “Of course,” Dad says.
    “I’ll take her,” I offer before anyone else. I’d rather
spend a little time with Haven than sit around Brooks’s room pretending to be
devastated while simultaneously resenting him.
    I scoop her out of Mom’s lap, and she wraps her legs around
my hip. She smells like Play-Doh and strawberry shampoo.
    “I’ll come.” Delilah follows.
    We leave Brooks’s floor and head out to an empty lobby where
a TV plays The Price Is Right on mute with the closed caption running. An
assortment of Highlights magazines
are splayed neatly on a nearby table, and a corner houses a child-sized table
and chair set and a shelf of half-broken, well-loved toys.
    It doesn’t take but two seconds for Haven to spot the kiddie
corner. She shimmies down my leg and makes a mad dash.
    “Apparently, toys are way more fun than the two coolest
aunts in the world.” Delilah smirks.
    “Someday, she’ll get her priorities straight.”
    We take a seat next to Haven. I’m sure we look ridiculous
sitting in these tiny chairs, but no one’s around to see it, so it doesn’t
matter. A tin can full of broken crayons and a small stack of coloring books
call to us.
    “You wanna?” Delilah points.
    I nod. “Duh.”
    Haven plays with two naked Barbies and a handful of matchbox
cars, and we color.
    “I know you’re probably getting sick of people asking, but—”
    My hand flies up. “I’m fine, Delilah. I’ll let you know if I
need anything. Can we talk about something other than Brooks right now? ‘Cause
if there’s anything I need, it’s a break from talking about Brooks.”
    “Fine.” She grabs a nubby yellow Crayola and shades the tail
of a triceratops.
    “Dinosaurs aren’t yellow.” Haven sticks a chubby hand on her
hip and furrows her brow.
    “What color do you want me to use?” My sister plunks the
crayon back in the tin.
    “Blue,” Haven says. “Like your eyes.”
    “Your eyes too,” I say.
    “You too, Aunt Demi.” Haven grins. “We all have the same
eyes.”
    “We do,” I say.
    Delilah fishes around for a usable crayon in the most
appropriate shade of pale blue and pulls out periwinkle instead.
    “Close enough.” She scribbles.
    “How’s school going?”
    “Talk about annoying questions.” She laughs. “People act
like if you’re in school, that it’s the only thing going on in your life.”
    “You’re in grad school. I assume it keeps you pretty busy. I
know I don’t hear from you as much anymore.”
    “Aw, are you trying to guilt trip me? Because I distinctly
remember your Hargrove days and going weeks without so much as a text.” Delilah
grins. “You were wild back then.”
    I lift a brow, silently pleading the fifth.
    “At least until Brooks came along,” she mutters. Her eyes
lift to mine. “Sorry. I forgot. No Brooks.”
    I thank her with a tight, smug smile, and she laughs. It’s
easy to forget, in these small, mundane moments, the swarming chaos happening
outside this little waiting area.
    “Did Royal ever show back up?” My sister stops scribbling
and glances across the tiny table at me.
    Haven hops off her chair and grabs a doll. She clearly
doesn’t seem