Demi Lovato Imagines

A Nice Person

TW - ED

You kick a stone with the toe of your trainer, sending it bouncing across the car park and under the tyre of some old Nissan.

"Stop that," your dad mumbles before turning his head back to your sister, placing his hand on the small of her back and guiding her through the front door. He's always telling you to stop. Stop this, stop that. But doing what he tells you not to do is the only way to get him to actually pay attention to you. Even if it's only for a second.

"Don't make this harder for her with your antics," your mom says breathlessly, coming up behind you and overtaking, reaching for the handle.

"M'not," you reply, stuffing your hands to the bottoms of your pockets and striding through the door that she's holding open, picking up your pace slightly to catch up to your dad and Emma. They're already at a table and a short waitress with blonde, spiky hair hands them menus. You plop down in the seat across from your sister, keeping your arms crossed.

"Y/n."

Your dad narrows his eyes at you, warning you not to start. Your shoulders sag and you finally pick up your own menu, flicking through. From your right, the table next to you bursts into a chorus of laughter, deepening the crease in your forehead. You want a family like that.

"So...what can I get you guys?" the waitress asks when she returns a few minutes later, the tip of her pen itching at her pad. Her wide smile is genuine and you sit up a little straighter.

"Umm...can I have the pasta arrabiata?" you ask politely. "And a water."

She holds her smile as she writes it down before lifting her head up to your parents. They order, and Emma whines.

"I don't--I don't know, I-..."

Her eyes turn glassy and you sink into the hard leather again, shoulders hunched up to your ears.

"Oh, I can come back," the waitress says apologetically, "There's no rush."

But your dad holds his hand out, motioning for her not to leave. And your mom rubs Emma's back, up and down.

"It's fine, sweetheart. Just order the chicken and we'll see when it comes, okay? That's what we'll do, eh?"

Emma swallows hard, trying in vain to hide the pained expression on her face. Eventually, she nods.

"She'll have the chicken salad," your mom says through gritted teeth, turning to the waitress who jots it down with a smile that is now, almost certainly, fake. Once she walks away, you feel like you can breathe again.

It's not that you don't feel sorry for your big sister. Of course you do. But it's been almost six months since she came out of treatment and you feel like she's only got worse. She skimps on her orange juice in the morning and you watch silently as she scrapes increasingly less butter on her afternoon snack of toast. At dinner, she usually ends up crying and your mom's begun to give in and only put half the recommended portion on her plate. It's frustrating. It's frustrating to go to school every day with the fear that your teacher is going to get a call from reception to tell you your dad has come to pick you up after your sister dropped dead from a heart attack. Recovery was supposed to mean that was less likely to happen. But Emma's recovery seems to do the opposite.

You glance momentarily towards the table next to you again, making eye contact with a woman. Her dark eyes are piercing and you reach for the glass that has just been placed in front of you, rolling the water over your tongue. She sees the way you're sitting, hunched over and embarrassed. Shame burns your cheeks.