“WAIT A MINUTE.” My grip loosens on her arms and she uses it to her advantage, slipping away from me and launching into a run, headed for the trail that leads back to her house. “Damn it, Sylvie!”
She doesn’t turn around. Just keeps running, her blonde hair streaming behind her. I go after her, slower this time, trying to process everything she just said.
Could she be lying? It sounds like some sort of fucked-up fantasy. But her entire life sounds like one giant fucked-up fantasy, if I’m being real with myself. Ultra-rich parents who don’t give a shit about her…
Well. That’s not quite it. But how was I supposed to know her mother was making her sick on purpose for attention?
That’s some straight-up, weird Netflix-type documentary shit right there.
I pick up the pace, chasing after her, slightly winded thanks to running against the stiffening breeze. But Sylvie isn’t running very fast either and I catch up to her easily, until I’m jogging alongside her, as if it’s just another normal day and we’re out for a run on the beach.
Like she didn’t just tell me her mom has been trying to kill her for years.
Anger churns low in my gut as the memories hit me. The weird things Sylvie would allude to. She spoke in mysterious terms, never coming right out and saying anything of substance in regards to her health. I always knew something was up with her relationship with her mother. I just didn’t think it went that deep. That serious.
That messed-up.
“Sylvie…”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“We have to.”
“No, we don’t. I said it. You know. That’s all I can say about it for now. Whatever else you want to know, has to wait.”
“Until when?”
“I don’t know!” She comes to a complete stop, throwing her arms up in the air. A cluster of seagulls go flying overhead, squawking their displeasure at her outburst, but I don’t react at all. This is what I need, what I want to hear.
No matter how painful it might be.
“You’re not…lying, are you? She really was trying to kill you?” I hate that I have to ask, but come on. I’ve heard some pretty fanciful tales come straight out of Sylvie’s mouth.
Plenty of times.
“You really think I would make this up?” She’s incredulous.
“Not at all. You have to admit it just sounds so fucking crazy. I know Sylvia Lancaster is a lot, but Syl. What you’re accusing her of…” My voice drifts.
“Is the truth,” she says quietly, her head dropping so she’s speaking to the sand beneath our feet. “I was out of school all the time for being sick.”
“I remember.”
“Sometimes she’d have me so doped up on prescription medication, I didn’t know what was happening to me, or how much time had passed. She’d keep me drugged for days. Even weeks. And I always felt nauseous. I threw up all the time. I think she was giving me something so I couldn’t keep anything down. Couldn’t even eat. My blood pressure would get so low, I could barely function. I would faint so easily. You saw me back then. You know how it was. At one point, I got pneumonia, and I couldn’t shake it for the longest time. I was coughing and hacking for months. I really believed I was going to die.”
Her words bring back all the memories of her at Lancaster Prep. Joking about death. Being so matter of fact about the subject too. She’d always tell me she was dying and she wanted to live life to the fullest, right in that very moment.
After a while, I thought it was horseshit. Just Sylvie being dramatic because that was her personality trait and she leaned into it heavily. I remember even asking Whit about it once, and he blew me off, saying it was just her way.
But maybe she was trying to tell all of us all along what her mother was doing to her, and we never believed her.
That’s so messed-up.
“She’s always had a hold on me,” Sylvie continues. For someone who said she wasn’t going to talk about it anymore, maybe the dam just broke. Now she appears ready to spill. “When I was younger, I could never break the bond. How could I? I lived with her. Even when I was at Lancaster Prep, she still pulled all the strings. She’s controlled me since birth. Right up until I married Earl. When that happened, I felt—free. Like I finally got away from her for good.”
Irritation sparks in my veins at the mention of her dead husband. I could’ve been the one to help her get away from her mother, but she never gave me the chance.
“And then he died. I was at a complete loss. You don’t expect your husband to die when you’re my age, even if he’s much older than you. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. His children were fighting with me over money. Money I didn’t even want or need. It was a complete nightmare.”
Is it wrong that I don’t feel bad? God, I’m a callous dick. I hate that she suffered, but I could give a damn that her husband died. She should’ve never married that asshole in the first place. She should’ve married someone her own age.
Someone like me.
“My mother took over everything. She helped me with the funeral, with the meetings with the lawyers. All of it. She pulled me right back into her web, and like the weak person I am, I went willingly. She promised she would help me, and she did. At first. I thought she’d changed.” Sylvie finally lifts her head, her watery eyes meeting mine. “Like an idiot I believed her. She was just so supportive. Incredibly sincere, making me all sorts of promises. Then about a month after Earl passed, I was staying at her apartment, and one night I woke up to her standing over my bed with a pillow in her hands like she was going to—smother me. That was it. That was the end. I hadn’t seen her since, until Whit’s wedding, and she tried to talk to me afterward, but I’ve mostly cut her off. It’s just—it’s better that way. Easier.”
I’m still stuck on one tiny detail. “Wait a minute. You woke up to her standing over your bed with a pillow in her hands?”
She nods, her lower lip trembling. “I assume I woke up because I was gasping for air. She wanted to kill me that night, I think. It was right after the funeral.”
There’s a death that makes no damn sense. Earl was an old man, but he didn’t die of old age. Something happened to him, something that’s been kept hush hush ever since because I’ve never heard any details about it.
“It’s a lot to process, I know.” She says it as if she’s trying to reassure me, when she’s the one who should probably be getting all the reassurance. “Let’s go back to the house. I’m starving.”
Frowning, I fall into step with her like everything is perfectly normal, my mind going over all the details she just shared about her life, and how much she feared for it.
How her mother used to try to kill her.
I knew things weren’t right between Sylvie and her mother when we were at Lancaster Prep. She would drop those hints and imply that she had only a short time left before she would die. After a while, I couldn’t ignore what she said, but I was still just a kid. Maybe I didn’t want to know what Sylvie was actually referring to.
Actually, I know I didn’t. Easier to pretend she never said any of that shit.
Sylvie always had a flair for dramatics and she’s lied plenty of times before. But if she says her mother was trying to kill her, I believe her. Putting together everything else she’s said and done over the years, it makes sense, which is messed up.
Like seriously, what the fuck? What sort of sick bitch makes her child ill for attention? Who pulls her back in, only to try and smother her with a goddamn pillow?
Someone as demented as Sylvia Lancaster, that’s who.
The walk back to the house is much shorter than the walk to the beach, but isn’t that always the way? By the time we’re entering the house, I’m grateful for the cooler temperature inside. Despite the chilly wind, the heat of the sun penetrated through my clothes, making me mildly miserable as we trudged back. I accept the cold bottle of water Sylvie pulls out of the massive fridge and hands over to me, taking a long pull from it before I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth.
She’s washing her hands, all those earlier tears all dried up. Appearing unchanged, as if she didn’t just drop a life-changing bomb on me only moments ago.
Typical.
What she said is most definitely life-changing. All of my protective feelings toward this woman are out in full force. I’ve always wanted to protect her, but now…
Now I know I can’t let her out of my sight. We need to keep Sylvia Lancaster away from her at all costs.
“Do you want a sandwich?” she asks as she’s drying her hands.
“Do you actually know how to make one?” I toss back at her, unable to help myself.
Her scowl is small, but it’s there, and I almost want to laugh. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t know how.”
“I’d love a sandwich.”
“Turkey? It’s all I have.”
“Turkey works,” I answer without hesitation. “Can I help you with anything?”
“No, go sit down. I’ll make our lunch.”
I watch as she bustles around the kitchen like she was born in one, which is the furthest thing from the fucking truth. This girl never lifted a finger her entire life, so to watch her act like a good little housewife is disconcerting.
And kind of hot, which makes me feel like a sexist male asshole. But come on. Sylvie is from one of the richest families in the entire world and she’s making me a sandwich? I feel fucking special.
“You want cheese?”
“Sure.”
“Swiss or provolone?”
This time I do chuckle. The moment feels so…normal, when our relationship, the circumstances that brought me here in the first place, is anything but. “Provolone.”
“Mustard and mayo?”
“You own mayo?”
She glares at me.
“I’ll take both,” I say. “Light mayo though. Gotta watch my waistline.”
I pat my stomach for emphasis.
Sylvie rolls her eyes but doesn’t say a word as she puts together my sandwich, then hers. My stomach starts to rumble, and by the time she’s setting the plate in front of me, I’m full-fledged starving.
“There you go.” She smiles. “Want something to drink?”
“Another water if you’ve got it.”
Within a few minutes, we’re both seated at the table eating our lunch and sharing a bag of barbecue chips. The sandwich is fucking delicious, piled high with turkey and cheese and lettuce, even thinly sliced avocado and onion. I devour it in an embarrassingly small amount of bites and when I polish off the last of it, I glance up to find her watching me with amusement.
“Hungry?”
“More than I thought,” I admit.
“This is so weird.” She shakes her head. “I never believed this would happen.”
I frown. “What would happen?”
“The two of us in a house I didn’t even know existed until a few weeks ago. Sitting in my kitchen and sharing a meal together that I prepared.” Her laughter is bright and unexpected. Full of joy despite the earlier dark confessions of the day. “A miracle has occurred.”
“It was a damn good sandwich, Syl.”
She wiggles in her chair, her smile unable to be contained. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”
“I never imagined you could make me a meal either. You’ve always had servants for that,” I continue.
A sigh leaves her and she pushes her plate away. “I was such a spoiled little shit.”
“Yeah, you were,” I agree, and she tosses her balled up napkin at me, missing me completely. “Though now I’m guessing you were just hiding a lot of pain.”
Her somber gaze finds mine, never straying. “I was. Still doesn’t excuse that I was so awful to you.”
“I must’ve really liked you to put up with all that.”
When I was a teenager, I was completely gone over this girl. I would’ve done anything she asked me.
“We made out a lot,” she reminds me.
I chuckle, the memories hitting me, one after another. Plenty of secret moments, sneaking in kisses here and there. “You were insatiable.”
“I don’t think I was the only one who wanted to do it all the time.”
“You were the one who almost always instigated it, though.”
Her cheeks turn an adorable shade of pink. The widowed woman, embarrassed over teenage make-out memories. “True.”
I eat a few chips, watching as she finishes her sandwich. “You’ve gained weight. I noticed it at the wedding too.”
“Is that a bad thing?” She sounds vaguely defensive.
“Not at all. You were always so…” What can I say that won’t offend her?
“Thin? Frail? Sickly?”
I press my lips together, not wanting to insult her.
A sigh leaves her. “I’m away from my mother. She’s not poisoning me and keeping me deathly skinny anymore.”
That she can say it so matter of fact, like it’s no big deal, what her mother has been doing to her all these years. That she survived after everything is…amazing. Huge. “Do you hate her?”
“My mother?” When I nod, she shrugs. “I don’t know. I should. Sometimes I do. Yet other times, I love her and miss her, because she’s my mother, and at one point, she was all I had. My dad wasn’t around much, and she always told me he didn’t care about me. Not like she did.”
I’m quiet, absorbing her words. She’s been manipulated practically her entire life by her mother. Does she even see it?
“We shared some great moments together,” Sylvie continues. “My memories with her, they’re not all bad.”
They’ve been tainted though, those moments. They have to be. I’ve been disappointed plenty of times by my parents over the years, but one of them never tried to kill me.
I don’t know how you ever recover from that.
“What about your dad?”
“What about him?”
“He didn’t—notice what Sylvia was doing?”
Sylvie laughs. Actually laughs, like I just told the most hilarious joke. “Augustus Lancaster only notices what’s going on when it directly involves him. He’s the most selfish Lancaster I know, and I know lots of them, trust me. But I love my father. I don’t blame him for not noticing. He was too focused on Carolina back then. Besides, my parents’ relationship has never been great, and he was living in his own world most of the time. I’m not surprised at all that he didn’t realize what was going on. He was too wrapped up in his own bullshit.”
I hate that he was oblivious. That we all were. Guilt fills me, threatens to pour out in a litany of words of meaningless apology, but I press my lips together, keeping them all inside.
Words are meaningless. Action is required in a situation like this.
“Are you feeling guilty?” When I meet her gaze, I find her peering at me with all-knowing eyes. “Don’t, Spence. You didn’t know. And you were just a kid. What could you have done?”
“I should’ve known. I should’ve believed you,” I say fiercely, wishing I could fight all of her demons for her. Even after all these years, and all the disappointment and frustration and anger, I still want to defend her. Protect her.
I will always want to do that, even when she pushes me away.
I don’t know if I can take much more of this kind of shit, but I also know I can’t resist her. I’m loyal to a fault. My father always said that, making it sound like a character flaw when I’m just like him. Besides, my loyalty means I stand by his side no matter what, which is to his advantage.
“I tried to make light of it, like it was a joke. How could you believe me when you thought I was joking?” She shakes her head when I start to say something, cutting me off. “Stop with the guilt. I’m just glad you’re here. If I wanted anyone to find me, it would be you.”
Shocked pleasure courses through me at her words. “Really?”
“Yes,” she whispers, leaning over to settle her small, pale hand over mine. “You’re my favorite human in this world, Spencer. Even if I have a funny way of showing it, you mean more to me than anyone else.”
I stare at her hand on my own, tempted to turn mine over and interlock our fingers. But I don’t do it. Not yet. My feelings for Sylvie are…complicated. Being with her has brought them all roaring back, and I don’t know what to do with them.
Giving in could be a mistake.
One I might never recover from.
