Demi Lovato Imagines

Gone

Demi took a deliberate step to the right, bypassing the raised paving stone that she has consistently tripped over every other day that week on the way home from work. Barely able to keep her eyes open, she rumaged at the bottom of her bag for her key, not even caring if her polish chipped on the multitude of randomness she keeps in there. 

Key.

Lock.

Handle.

Inside. At last. She dropped her bag at her feet, kicking off the heels and sighing as her feet met the cool flooring. She leaned back against the door. Only midday, she thought. Since when did I get so old that I needed a nap at midday?

A noise from the kitchen. Like a chair leg screaching along the tiles. Demi straightened as if a blade had been struck through her, top to bottom. Holding her breath, she tiptoed through, sticking the key between her index and middle finger. Head first, she pitched her body so that she could see into the far room, past both the oven and stove. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" 

Reg stood from the table, his hands immediately stuffing into his pockets to stop them from flapping about. Demi chucked the keys on the side, crossing her arms and jutting her hip to the side. 

"Demi."

"You know, now we're not married, you don't get to just drop by here anymore."

Despite it only being partly a joke, she waited for Reg to smile, that dopey smile she first fell in love with. But his face remained as still as a stone, his tan skin paler than she's ever seen it. 

"What's going on?"

He took a deep breath, his chest inflating up then sinking down. 

"Freya's not at school."

It took a while for Demi to make sense of the words in her head and, even then, she needed her ex-husband to elaborate. 

"The school called. They said she's not been there all day. Missed registration."

"What do you mean, they called?  They don't call you. I'm the contact they've got."

"Receptionist said they stopped trying you. Said you never pick up."

"That's not--" Demi started then quickly bit back. She wasn't naive enough to think that Reg wouldn't ask to see her phone and be able to scroll through all the missed calls she had seen, and ignored, over the past three years. 

"Okay," she tried instead, "So she's grounded. And no cheer practice this weekend. Happy?"

"Am I happy?" Reg pressed his hands against his chest. 

"Well, what are you wanting me to do? I don't rule with the iron fist that you used to, in case you'd forgot."

In fact, it was part of the reason they'd split. Demi remembered the way Reg used to shout at their daughter for the clothes she'd wear, the things she bought, the boys she wanted to stay out until morning with. And she remembered how it reminded her of things she didn't want reminded of. And when Reg said that that was just his way of doing things, she knew that was the beginning of the end. She filed for divorce half a year later. 

"No, I haven't forgotten. Nor have I forgotten how you always let her off with anything so long as it gave you an easy life."

"Excuse me?"

"You never wanted to be a parent, Demi! You want to be a singer. So my daughter has been left to do her own thing since she was twelve 'cause you had to leave for a last minute performance that took you out the country for ten days!"