Spotless

Donna stirred before the sun had fully risen.

For a few blissful seconds, she didn't remember the party. The spilled drinks, the bodies packed in tight clusters, the steady thump of bass that shook the floorboards. She only felt the warmth of another body beside her in the bed—Eliza, the schoolteacher. Sweet Eliza, who had whispered goodnight and curled gently under the covers like a kitten at peace.

It had felt nice, Donna admitted to herself, to share space with someone who understood. Who cared about Joey. Who saw in him what she did.

The moment passed. Memory returned.

She sat up with a groan and surveyed the master bedroom. It wasn't a disaster—Eliza was neat, and Donna never let herself leave a mess—but the house itself? That was another matter.

The cups. The bottles. The stickiness of spilled soda on the hardwood floor. The faint trail of glitter down the hall. It would all need to be dealt with before Joey came down.

Because Joey, her perfect man, shouldn't have to clean up this mess. He hadn't caused it. The party hadn't even been his idea. No, her Joey, the man she hoped would one day be her husband, could rest. Donna would take care of it.

Slipping out of bed, being extra careful not to wake Eliza, Donna pulled her robe over her lingerie. She padded quietly through the upstairs hall, peeking into the bedrooms one by one.

Madison and Aynsley were tangled up on the guest bed, limbs sprawled and dead to the world. In Joey's room, Bianca was curled up on his bed like a cat with a secret, her cheek pressed to his pillow, a blissful smile still lingering. The scent of him, no doubt, still clung to the sheets.

Donna smiled.

The girls had done well last night.

After Joey and Juniper disappeared into her room, the atmosphere had shifted. At first, it was silent tension. But slowly, the mood softened. The women in the master bedroom—herself, Eliza, Bianca, Aynsley, Madison, and even the new girl, Serena—had stayed for over an hour just talking. About Joey. About how they'd come to love him. About what it meant.

Donna had felt like the queen of a royal court. Her girls, all gathered, aligned in their affection for her son.

Eventually, she'd told Bianca, Aynsley, Serena, and Madison to head back downstairs. Someone needed to keep an eye on the party. They obeyed without question.

She smiled again. They'd kept it under control, she was sure of it. The noise had died down not long after.

Indira, the sweet Indian girl, had never come upstairs. The others assumed she'd gone home, and Donna hadn't had the chance to check in with her personally. That would have to be corrected. The poor thing had such promise. So quiet, so respectful, but so obviously as crazy about Joey as the rest of them.

Donna moved through the house now with quiet efficiency. She began in the kitchen—tossing cups, rinsing plates, wiping surfaces—then, seeing how much needed to get done, she returned upstairs and gently roused the sleeping girls one by one.

"Up now," she whispered, tapping Madison's shoulder. "Time to clean. Joey's sleeping. We want him to come down to a beautiful home."

She told each of them the same thing: move quietly, be swift, make it spotless. None of them argued. They rose like soldiers, their makeup smeared, hair wild, but determination in their eyes.

They understood. They were his girls now.

Halfway through polishing the bannister, Donna heard it—a sound from upstairs. Movement. Then retching.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She climbed the stairs quickly and turned down the hall, heart in her throat, and there—kneeling in front of the toilet in an ill-fitting t-shirt and bunched-up skirt—was Juniper.

"Oh, honey," Donna murmured, kneeling beside her.

Juniper looked up, eyes glassy, face pale, a damp strand of hair stuck to her cheek. "Hey, Mom," she croaked, before lurching forward again.

Donna rubbed her back in slow, familiar circles. "It’s okay, baby. Let it out. I've got you."

Juniper was sweating. Her eyeliner smudged down her cheek in a jagged streak. After a few more heaves, she slumped back against the wall, breathing hard.

Donna reached for a washcloth and ran it under cold water, pressing it gently to her daughter's forehead.

"I’m sorry," Juniper whispered.

Donna smiled. "Shush. You have nothing to be sorry for."

"I think I drank too much."

"You did," Donna said simply, smoothing the cloth over her flushed skin.

"I feel like I died."

Donna laughed softly. "You'll live. Barely."

She helped her sip a little water, guided her to brush her teeth, and sat with her until her hands stopped shaking. Somewhere in the midst of it, Juniper said something—quietly, dreamily.

"It was the best night of my life."

And Donna saw it in her daughter's eyes.

The change.

The devotion.

The love.

She thought of Joey, still asleep in the room down the hall. She thought of Juniper, who had spent years being too sharp, too proud, too distant. And now here she was, shaking and pale and reverent, the mask gone, the shield lowered.

Donna’s throat tightened with emotion.

Her babies. Closer than ever. Finally connected.

She kissed Juniper's forehead, brushed back her hair, and wrapped her arms around her.

Everything was falling into place.

Her family had never felt more whole.

And Joey, her beautiful, perfect son, was at the center of it all—just where he belonged.