Page 48 of Doomed

“Great. Let me clean up, and we can head to that little place around the corner—Whiskey Blue?”

While washing my brushes, I glance at Elliot scrolling through his phone, his posture rigid even when he thinks no one’s watching. In the months I’ve known him, I’ve learned to read the subtle tells beneath his composed exterior—the slight tightening around his eyes when he’s stressed, the way he adjusts his cuffs when uncomfortable.

Twenty minutes later, we’re settled in a corner booth at Whiskey Blue, sunlight streaming through stained glass windows, casting colorful patterns across our table.

“Remember when we first met?” I ask, smiling over my gin and tonic. “You told me my work was ‘derivative but showing promise.’“

Elliot winces, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Not my finest moment. In my defense, I was having a terrible day. My mother had called that morning.”

“You never talk about your family.”

Elliot’s expression tightens at my question. He takes a long sip of his whiskey before answering.

“Not much to talk about. My father walked out when I was eight.” He traces the rim of his glass with his finger. “Never heard from him again. Just... gone one morning. No note, no explanation.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “That must have been hard.”

“My mother...” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “She’s a complicated woman. Raised me alone, worked two jobs. She has very... traditional values.” Pain flickers across his face. “Church every Sunday, rigid expectations about how a man should behave, who he should become.”

I notice how his knuckles whiten around his glass.

“We don’t speak much anymore. She doesn’t approve of my career—thinks art is frivolous. She wanted me to be a lawyer or doctor.” He gives a hollow laugh. “Something respectable.”

“Does she know about your connection to Purgatory?” I ask.

Elliot nearly chokes on his drink. “God, no. She thinks I run a simple gallery. If she knew...” He shakes his head. “Let’s say her world is black and white. No room for gray areas.”

“Let me guess, she’s always asking when you’ll settle down and have kids?” I ask.

His smile tightens. “Yes, but I tell her work keeps me busy. The women I meet...” He shrugs. “I haven’t found the right one.” I notice the tension in his jaw. “She has a very specific image of what my life should look like.”

I sense there’s more he’s not saying, walls carefully constructed to hide something important. But before I can probe further, he deflects.

“What about you? Any family drama that you care to share since we areairing out the houseas it were?”

I take a long sip of my drink, considering how much to share. Something about Elliot’s vulnerability makes me willing to open up a bit.

“My mom died when I was ten,” I say. “Cancer. It was quick—three months from diagnosis to the end.” The familiar ache in my chest never goes away when I talk about her, just dulls with time.

Elliot’s expression softens. “I’m sorry.”

I shrug, a gesture that helps keep the emotions at bay. “My dad... He didn’t handle it well. Started drinking. A lot.” I stare into my gin and tonic, watching the ice melt. “At first, it was just weekends. Then weeknights. Then mornings. While he watched the liquor disappear, I watched him follow it.”

The memories flash through my mind—finding him passed out on the couch, empty bottles scattered across the floor, the smell of whiskey seeping from his pores.

“The gambling started a few years later. He’d always loved poker, but after Mom died, it became an obsession. He was convinced the next big win would solve everything.” I laugh bitterly. “It never did.”

I recall the late-night phone calls, the men who would come to our house demanding payment, the mounting bills on the kitchen table, and finally, the notices.

“By the time I was eighteen, he’d remortgaged our house twice. I put myself through college with scholarships and three part-time jobs.” I straighten my shoulders, still proud of that accomplishment. “When I graduated, I knew I had to leave. Not just the house, but Riverdale entirely.”

I pause, my throat tightening.

“He was dragging me down with him. I couldn’t save him, and staying meant drowning alongside him.” I meet Elliot’s eyes. “I couldn’t live under his shadow anymore. So, I left. Came to Ravenwood, started over.”

Elliot’s eyes soften as he studies me. “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?” He raises his glass slightly. “Running from the ghosts of our parents.”

“I never thought about it that way,” I admit, “but you’re right.”