THE RESTAURANT SYLVIE brings me to is small and quaint. Oh, and packed. It’s Saturday night, and everyone’s out, the sidewalks downtown crowded with people waiting to get into a restaurant or a bar. Sylvie glides into her chosen restaurant as if she owns the place, chatting with the hostess like they’re old friends, and obtains us a table within minutes.
“It helps when you know someone,” Sylvie tells me with a wink just before the hostess leads us to our table. The other people in the cramped lobby glare at us as we head into the dining area, pissed at us for jumping the line.
Sylvie is oblivious to their ire.
Once we’re seated, she tells me her favorite dishes, making recommendations based on what I tell her I like. She orders us strawberry lemonades and fried cheese for an appetizer, my mouth opening in protest when the two words fall from her lips. She silences me with a look.
“Trust me. It’s delicious.”
I’m sure. And I’ll gain five pounds alone from tonight’s dinner.
My mother’s words follow me everywhere I go in regards to food, especially in restaurants. Particularly ones that serve rich, calorie-laden dishes. My mother is so thin, she makes supermodels look fat. Her diet consists of prescription medication and alcohol—that’s pretty much it. She rarely eats. She used to be bulimic, she admitted that to me when I was thirteen and eating everything in sight. During those heroin chic days when she was younger, she referenced them more than once.
Meaning she was quite on-trend in the mid-nineties.
She believed I showed signs of bulimia as well, but it turns out I was eating like crazy because of a growth spurt. I’m prone to weight gain. She told me the summer I was thirteen, when I was lazy and spent the long, hot days in my room, rarely going out. I need to watch what I eat and exercise. She was a food tyrant, monitoring everything I put in my mouth. Griping at me when she caught me eating junk food, which back then was often.
Now I find I can’t bring myself to eat bread or pasta without hearing her voice ring in my head, and that’s a horrible thing. I’m not fat, but I’ll never be as thin as Mother. Or Sylvie. She’s so skinny, I can see the blue veins in her pale, thin arms. Her clothes hang on her, as if she has no meat on her bones, and her face is so angular, her cheekbones are razor sharp. Her pointy little chin and that lush, startlingly pink mouth against her pale skin really stand out. She’s gorgeous, like Whit.
“You’re staring,” she tells me once the server leaves our table.
I blink her back into focus. “I’m sorry. It’s just you’re so—”
“Thin?”
“No,” I deny, though it’s true. She’s thin as a rail. I could crack her in two. “You’re beautiful.”
“Oh.” She appears taken aback. And pleased by the compliment. “Thank you. I haven’t heard anyone use that word to describe me in a long time. Everyone’s always so concerned with my weight. I know I look like a skeleton. Mother called me a bag of bones before I came back to school. I’m on protein supplements, but they’re no use. I can’t keep any weight on.” She smiles. Glances around the room, as if she wants people to pay attention to her, but none of them are, which is fine by me. “Whit worries about me, but I told him there’s no point. I’m dying.”
My heart skips a beat at her casual mention of her brother. At the equally casual way she references her impending death. “I’m sure your family is very worried about you.”
“There’s no need. Like I said, I’m on the way out.” She laughs at my horrified expression. “What? It’s true! Death is something we all eventually have to face, Summer. I’m just having to face it a little sooner than most. And it’s okay. I’ll be lucky to make it to eighteen. Hopefully I’ll have had sex by then. Have a boy go down on me, at least. Are you a virgin?”
Her question stuns me silent for a moment. I think of who stole my virginity and frown. “No.”
“Oh, it was that bad? I’m sorry.” She leans over the table, her voice lowering. “I thought I wanted to save myself for the right person, but I’m afraid the right person won’t show up before my expiration date. Now I’m eager to get with whoever I can, just to get the deed over with. Really, I want to know what it’s like, to have someone else give me an orgasm.”
I kind of like how open she is. How honest. Sylvie is nothing like her brother.
“Don’t you want it to be with someone special?” That’s how I always felt before, when I was younger and incredibly naive. Until I was worn down and eventually gave in. A girl can protect her virtue for only so long.
“Trust me, there’s no one special in my life, or I’d be banging him nonstop by now.” The server stops by our table, delivering our drinks. They’re beautiful, the glasses full of clear squares of ice, the strawberry lemonade a perfect layer of yellow and red liquid, the rim of the glass covered with sparkling pink sugar. Sylvie takes the drink eagerly and sips from the straw, a satisfied noise leaving her once the server walks away. “Now this drink? It’s special. The boys I know? Not a one of them matters to me. Well, maybe one, but he fucks everyone else and puts me on a pedestal like I’m fragile and untouchable. He doesn’t see me in that way.” She hesitates for only a moment. “The fuckable way.”
Her casual use of the word fuck is surprising for such a delicate little girl like her, though I suppose I shouldn’t feel that way. She’s only a year younger than me. “Are you referring to Spencer?”
“He’s the only one who I’d let see me naked. Whit says none of his friends are good enough for me, and he’s probably right, but I don’t want someone good enough for me. I just—want someone. You know?” She coughs, resting her fist in front of her mouth to contain it. “When you’re someone like me, life is meant to be lived. Right now. I can’t wait. It could all be over tomorrow.”
I want to ask what’s wrong with her, but I’m afraid that might be rude, and I don’t want to pry. Instead I let her rattle on, eagerly grasping onto every morsel she shares about her family. Her brother. It’s not enough, but it’ll do for now, and I can’t help but wonder where he’s at. What he could be doing. Maybe he’s sitting in his room, reading my journal.
I get angry at the mere thought, so I shove it away.
It’s a Saturday night. I’m sure he’s not alone.
“Tell me about you,” Sylvie says once we’ve given our dinner orders and the plate of fried cheese is sitting on the table between us. She grabs one, dipping it into the thick marinara sauce before taking a big bite, the hot, stringy cheese staying connected before it snaps. “I know Jonas Weatherstone is your stepfather.”
“Was,” I correct her, taking a sip of the deliciously sweet yet tart lemonade.
“Yes. Was.” Her expression turns somber. “That fire was just awful. You’re lucky you weren’t there.”
“I was there,” I admit, her eyes going wide. “I just managed to escape. My mother saved me.” I duck my head, acting as if I’m overcome with emotion. And I suppose I am. With guilt. With anxiety. With worry. No one ever figured out what really happened, save for Mother. And she didn’t tell.
We’re both taking that secret to the grave.
“That’s so awful. And to lose your stepbrother too,” she continues. “When Jonas was still married to his first wife, they came to our house sometimes. Whit and Yates would play together when we were children.”
My stomach churns, thinking of them knowing each other. How they each know me.
Intimately.
“As he got older, he had a—reputation,” Sylvie continues. “Your stepbrother. I heard he was kicked out of a couple of schools for sexual assault.”
I nod, wiping my mouth of imaginary food. I haven’t eaten anything, my appetite completely leaving me.
“I suppose everything went to shit when his parents divorced. Same thing happened to our family,” she says, shrugging. Very c’est la vie of her. “Whit turned into a complete control freak when Father first left. He would get into these raging fights with him. It was terrible. All Lina and I could do was cry. We were all eventually sent to counseling.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t easy,” I murmur.
She picks up another piece of fried cheese, holding it with delicate fingers, tearing it into pieces and letting them fall onto her plate before she dips one into the red sauce. “It was a relief. When Daddy left, we could all breathe easier. Even Whit, though he’s loath to admit it. The problem with Whit is he’s cut from the same cloth as our father. He sees everything as black or white. There’s no gray. Right or wrong. Yes or no. Do it or don’t. He’s extremely stubborn and hard to get along with.”
She’s describing him perfectly. I can only nod my head in agreement.
Sylvie smiles, her gaze knowing. “You tricked me. I’m talking about myself again and you’ve barely said a word.”
“I don’t mind. I’m a good listener,” I tell her.
“But I want to know more about you.” She reaches across the table, her fingers dancing on top of my hand briefly before she pulls away. “It’s so exciting that you’re here. It’s always the same faces at Lancaster every year. I get bored so easily by them. The students. The teachers. The staff. That’s half the reason I become terribly sick, I swear. I get tired of seeing everyone on campus. I need more excitement in my life.”
“Like death?” I can’t help but ask.
Sylvie laughs. “Yes. Like death. It’s much more interesting, trust me. Now tell me about you. Don’t hold back. I want to know everything.”
“There’s really not much to tell. I don’t have any siblings.” Save Yates, and he doesn’t count. To think of him as my brother makes me want to vomit. “My father isn’t in my life. My mother and I have a strained relationship.”
Especially after the fire and the deaths and the reality that we’re all each other has left, which is not very reassuring to my mother. I suppose she hates me for what I did. But that makes us even because I hate her for what she did too.
Or more like what she didn’t do.
“You’ve dealt with death too, like me,” Sylvie says, her expression curious. “With the fire. Tell me what that was like, the night it happened.”
Unease slips through me. This is something I haven’t talked about since I spoke with the police. It’s a taboo subject between Mother and me. We’d rather forget it ever happened. “I don’t remember much,” I admit, my tone apologetic. “I woke up to a lot of smoke, and my mother dragging me out of the room.”
I remember everything that happened that night, right down to the finest detail. It’s just, I don’t want to tell her.
“Your mother is a hero,” Sylvie says, her voice full of awe. “She saved your life.”
I shrug, brushing it off. “She did what any mother would do in a situation like that.”
“Ha! I have a feeling my mother would let me burn,” Sylvie says bitterly. “She’d save Whit. Maybe Carolina.”
“She’d save all of her children,” I say, my voice soft as I reach out and lightly pat her hand.
Sylvie pulls her hand from beneath mine, making a dismissive gesture. “This is getting too serious. Let’s talk about something else. Oh, I know! Tell me about your trouble at Billington.” Her eyes light up, little flames dancing in their pale blue depths. “I’m not going to pretend I didn’t read your file when I hacked into the system, because I so did, and I’m positively green with envy over the experiences you’ve had. I love a lurid good girl gone bad story. Spill it.”
The truth is so boring. I was the typical rebellious rich teen who acted out. It was the standard cry for help. The any attention is good attention type situation. I was a mess. Trying to escape the pressures at home, the pressures at school. Wanting to grow up too fast, too soon, yet needing my mommy because I was scared.
And of course, there was Yates. He was incessant. It started when I was thirteen and grew breasts. He wouldn’t stop staring at them. He walked in on me taking a shower, watching me through the glass door. Sometimes, just because I could, I’d let him stare. It would satisfy him and he’d leave me alone.
Until the need became too great. Eventually, he was in constant pursuit of me. Trying to get me alone. Trying to sneak into my room.
Mother was too wrapped up in her own problems—and her affair with Augustus Lancaster, one of the richest men in the country, if not the world—to see what was happening right before her own eyes. In her own home. I’m still unsure if she realizes everything that happened between Yates and me. I tried to tell her once, but she began crying when I said Yates’s name.
So I stopped.
I clear my throat and decide to tell her about the other boy in my life at that time. “There was a boy.”
Sylvie’s expression becomes excited. “Of course. That’s how it always starts.”
“He was a year older. Gorgeous. Confident. Arrogant.” I think of Whit. He is all of those things and more. “With a hint of mean.”
“They’re the worst.”
“Awful,” I say in agreement. “He chose me out of everyone else, though, and I felt special. Wanted. Needed. He was bad—everything about him, my parents hated. He did drugs. Drank too much. I was only fourteen, and I turned fifteen when we were together. He convinced me to try things, and I was perfectly willing.”
This is all true. There was a boy at school. A senior when I was a freshman, scandalous. Yates hated him, which made me love him even more. His name was Daniel. He taught me shot gunning—blowing smoke into each other’s mouths—and how to stay drunk at school all day while keeping your composure. He had persuasive hands and an easy way about him.
He was the distraction I was looking for at that time. He was sweet, kind of dumb. Also kind of mean, just as I told Sylvie.
“Like what?” Sylvie’s eyes are wide as moons.
“Drugs. Drinking. Sex.” I shrug, hoping she doesn’t ask for details. Knowing she will most likely ask.
“He’s the one you were caught with in the gym.”
I nod. We weren’t actually having sex, but we were close. “They expelled him. He was eighteen. I was fifteen. A minor.”
“Scandalous!” Sylvie covers her mouth with her fingers. “You were willing though, right?”
“Of course,” I snap, feeling defensive. With Daniel, I was always willing, yet he was the one who got in trouble. Who was threatened with jail time by Jonas and my mother.
When the very one who was practically raping me every chance he could get lived under their own roof. Jonas’ own son.
You can’t call it rape when you enjoy it, Yates said to me once, after a particularly heated moment between us. You want it. You want me.
The guilt I still feel over that is so overwhelming, I suddenly rise to my feet, my thighs bumping into the table and making everything on top of it rattle.
“I need to use the restroom,” I say before I hurriedly walk away, never once looking back. I don’t need to. I’m sure Sylvie is wearing a shocked look on her face, wondering why I would just take off like that.
If you haven’t been through it, it’s hard to describe what it’s like, dealing with haunting memories and how they make you feel. How they come out of nowhere, when you least expect it. Climbing up your throat. Crawling all over your skin. Swallowing you up whole. They linger on the edge of your mind, lying in wait with the potential to ruin everything. Like my dinner with a new friend.
How can I be friends with Sylvie when her brother is Whit? Who now has my private journal because he stole it? Who, if he wanted to, could go to the very back of that journal and read those extra secret entries, and figure out exactly what happened between Yates and me. And what I did to finally make it stop.
I find the tiny restaurant bathroom in the back of the building and lock myself away inside, leaning against the door, staring at my reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. I look so young tonight, my hair in French braids, no makeup on my face, a gray North Face hoodie on and black leggings with my black and white Dior sneakers, much like what Sylvie’s wearing.
We both look like babies. We are babies. But I’ve seen and done so much already, inside I feel old. Jaded.
Disgusted.
Pushing away from the door, I go to the sink and turn on the water, washing my hands before I splash the icy cold water on my face. It puts some color into my cheeks, and after I’ve dried myself off, I smooth my hair back. Stand a little straighter. I remind myself of the girl I was two years ago. Chasing dreams and running from nightmares.
I’m still that girl. Though my dreams are all gone and the nightmares are always just behind me.
With a resolute sigh, I open the door to find two middle-aged women standing in the hallway, waiting to use the restroom. They glare at me with contempt, their eyes narrowed, their lips curled. Judging me when they don’t know me. Most likely hating me for my youth, while they hang on to it as tightly as they can with their claw-like fake nails.
I return the glare, flipping one of my long braids over my shoulder, putting a bit of saunter in my step as I walk past them. I exit the short hallway, making my way out into the dining area and head toward Sylvie when I spot someone sitting at a table on the complete opposite side of the building.
Whit Lancaster.
Watching me.
I stop short, in the middle of the restaurant, struck dumb by his presence. Our gazes lock. He smirks. I frown. He’s sitting with his friends, and a few girls accompany them too. Including Jane and Caitlyn. They’re flanking either side of him, both of them laughing, touching him, their hands like butterflies, hovering just above him, as if they’re not sure where to land next. Jane makes her decision first, her hand settling on his forearm. Caitlyn rests her hand on his shoulder, leaning her head toward his, her mouth right at his ear. Her lips move as she whispers something to him, but he doesn’t acknowledge her. They’re both desperate to capture his attention, but it’s as if he doesn’t realize their existence.
He can only stare at me with that beautiful face, temporarily battered. The black eye is obvious, and he wears it like a badge of honor. No shame in Whit Lancaster’s game. If anyone is talking about the obvious fight he must’ve engaged in, no one is saying a word to him about it.
I tilt my head. He does the same, away from Caitlyn, as if he’s trying to avoid her and her nonstop moving mouth. I blink.
So does he.
All right. I can play this game.
My mouth falls open the slightest bit, and I curl my tongue at the corner, just the tip peeking out. I bite my lower lip, dropping my eyes from his for the quickest moment, just before I glance back up at him.
He licks his upper lip, his eyes gleaming. Reminding me of a wolf, ready to launch his attack.
At me.
This all happens in a matter of seconds, but it feels like minutes. An agonizing tease.
I hate him.
Seriously, I do.
Not caring that I’m giving in first, I tear my gaze away from his and march over to Sylvie, settling into my seat. I smile at her, noting her frown. “Sorry about that,” I say. “I really had to go.”
“It’s the strawberry lemonades. They make me pee almost immediately.” She easily accepts my lame explanation, tapping her mostly empty glass. Mine looks the same way. “I ordered us another round.”
“Thank you.”
“Too bad they don’t have vodka in them.” She laughs.
“I don’t drink much anymore,” I admit.
“Why not?”
“I don’t like feeling like I’m not in control,” I answer.
“My brother says the same thing. Drinking, drugs. They are of little interest to him lately. He wants to remain in control, at all times. But that’s so typical of Whit. He’s the ultimate control freak.”
Truer words were never spoken.
She rests her chin on her hand, contemplating me. “Do you like my brother?”
“No,” I say immediately, glancing to my right. He can see me perfectly. I wonder if he realized that. If he’s been aware of my presence in this restaurant from the moment he walked in, while I’ve been over here, completely oblivious.
Probably. I’m sure he’s been watching me, and I’m also sure I’ve looked absolutely hideous. Laughing and carrying on. Sucking down strawberry lemonade. Dressed like a hobo, minus the designer sneaks on my feet. I’m sure he prefers his girls pretty and perfect, who drink water and nibble on a leaf. Who wear dresses and no panties so he can have easy access.
The perv.
Sylvie laughs. “I love your honesty. It’s so refreshing.”
“Are you surrounded by liars?” I ask.
“Mostly. People who’ll say anything to please me—I’ve dealt with them my entire life. It’s quite annoying. I’ve always wanted a friend who will be honest with me. Who’ll have an opinion instead of agreeing with me all the time.” Sylvie rolls her eyes. “Girls like that drive me crazy.”
“Same here,” I say truthfully, the two of us going silent when the server appears with our dinners.
We dig in once she’s gone, and my appetite comes roaring back. I’m famished, craving carbs, and I devour the pasta dish embarrassingly fast, consuming plenty of bread as well, not caring if Whit can see me stuffing my face.
Fuck the lettuce leaf. Give me all the pasta.
Sylvie matches me bite for bite, exceeding me with her appetite, since she also downed all of that fried cheese. We keep eating until we’re both stuffed, resting our hands over our distended bellies and moaning and groaning.
“I feel terrible,” I say.
“Same, but it was totally worth it,” she whimpers.
“You’re right.” I do my best to not look in Whit’s direction, and it’s driving me crazy. I hope my not looking at him drives him crazy too. He deserves to think I don’t care that he’s in this restaurant. I’d love to go talk to him. Demand that he tell me where my journal is and return it to me right away. But that’s not how I have to play this with Whit. Confrontation won’t work. I need to be sly. Cunning.
As sly and cunning as him.
The server drops off the check and Sylvie flashes a heavy black credit card, giving it to her. “Let me pay for mine,” I tell her.
“No, my treat. You can get it next time,” Sylvie says with a faint smile.
I like that. That she mentions there will be a next time. I finally feel like I have a friend. Someone who won’t be intimidated by Whit or fall under his influence so easily.
As his sister, she can defy him.
And so can I.
We’re waiting for the server to return with Sylvie’s credit card when I feel him approach—the air electrifies, and my head buzzes. Shadows fall over our table and I glance up to find Whit standing there, Spencer by his side. Chad is standing on the other side of Spence. The girls are behind them, giggling and tittering nervously, most likely excited by the possibility of a confrontation.
Wouldn’t they just die to know I had Whit’s dick in my mouth last night?
“Whit. Chad.” Sylvie smiles. “Spence.” She scowls at him, the look on her face reminding me of her brother. “What brings you boys to this lovely establishment?”
I love that she didn’t acknowledge the girls whatsoever.
“Hunger,” Chad says with smile. Spencer scowls at her in return, shoving his hands in his jeans’ pockets.
Whit doesn’t say a word. His expression is cool. Stoic. He won’t even glance in my direction, the prick.
“Have you met my friend?” Sylvie says jokingly, indicating me. They all know who I am and she knows it. Maybe she’s trying to be nice. At the very least, get them to be polite and acknowledge me. I hear a few murmured yeahs, though none of them will actually look at me.
“Can’t say that we’ve ever met before,” Whit says, turning so he’s staring right at me, his expression indifferent. Downright blank. As if he never had his mouth on me last night. As if I wasn’t the one who let him come all over my chest, like an animal marking his territory.
“Whit,” Sylvie snaps, but he ignores her.
“What was your name again?” he says to me with a flick of his chin, his gaze roving over me. Last night’s hunger is completely gone, replaced by that familiar cold stare. “Nice braids,” he says snidely. “You look like a child.”
I don’t even think. I just grab my leftover lemonade and stand, throwing it in his face, making direct contact. He closes his eyes at the last second, the drink splashing him, and even the girls behind him. They gasp.
Right before they start squealing.
“Fuck you,” I tell him between clenched teeth, glancing over at Sylvie to find she’s watching us with open glee on her face. The girl loves drama. “I’m leaving. Thank you for dinner, Sylvie.”
And with that, I turn and walk away.
