Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
NOW
Same Day
Dash
F ucking Stacey Alderchuck. Fuck him straight to hell. I don’t think I’ve ever been madder at him, and this includes the time he threw me under the bus with Dad after I told him I was in love with him.
I only know why I’m mad, though. Couldn’t tell you why I was justified.
He left. Again. He gave up again. He was gonna say something big. Something even more life-changing than what he told me two and a half weeks ago. But he didn’t. It feels like he left me with Syd, even though I know that’s not true. He thinks I want to be with Syd, that being with Syd’s what makes me happy.
Most people would tell me Stacey leaving is what’s supposed to happen.
I’d tell them that Stace and I are different.
Or so I thought.
I thought Stacey was the kind to take what he wants. I thought he was the kind to go after the puck no matter how many hockey goons stood in the way.
He’s said a lot of shit, ranging from he wants to marry me to he wants to fuck me. Was it a passing fancy? Did I do something to remind him that I’ll never be a whole person?
I’ve obsessively analyzed my last twenty-four hours’ worth of behavior, every word, every touch, every slight inflection of tone as I watch the City of Vancouver pass me by out the window of Syd’s Lexus, holding onto my bouquet of roses like I won a beauty pageant. I roll down the window before the scent gags me. I’d throw them into traffic if I didn’t think it would hurt Syd’s feelings.
Without looking at him, I can tell he’s concerned. He hasn’t said a word, and I can’t help the nagging feeling that he wants to get me to his condo as quickly as possible, before I demand that he takes me back to Stacey. Almost like I’m being abducted.
That suspicion, combined with the scent of roses, has my internal alarm system on full alert.
Syd’s not Robin. He’s not.
A phantom rose petal ghosts over my skin, a creepy-crawly sensation like a fresh hatch of spiders, migrates across my limbs. Look at me, Dash. Look at me when I’m trying to show you how much I love you. You don’t want to go another day without food, do you?
Fucking flowers. Triggering me more than I thought they would. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that fucking Robin’s about to be out on parole.
“Dash.”
I jump at the sound of my name and throw off the hand that tried to cup itself over mine.
“Dash, you’re hurting yourself,” Robin says.
No. Fuck. Not Robin.
Syd. I’m in Syd’s car. Syd said that.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
A distant pain throbs in my pointer finger. There’s blood. I shove it into my mouth, the metallic flavor hits my tastebuds. “Sorry,” I mumble.
“Sorry? Dash.” Syd sighs. I don’t know what that sigh means—fed up, concerned, frustrated?
“Because I hate roses,” I admit. “I’m sorry that I hate roses.”
“You don’t have to be sorry that you hate roses or that you pricked your finger on a thorn,” he says. He turns into the parkade.
“Would you like me to dispose of those?” he asks in his mild British accent as we pass the building’s compost bin.
I’m still holding onto them like a prom queen. “Yeah. Oh, god. Sorry.”
With one hand, he chucks them into the bin, with the other he takes my mine and leads me to the elevator.
S yd bought the penthouse. It overlooks Coal Harbor because he knows how much I love the water, but he doesn’t know that the reason I love the water so much is because of all the lazy days Stace and I have spent at the beach.
The place is all granite countertops, shiny appliances, wood cabinets, expansive windows, and soaring double-high ceilings. Syd loves art, so each furniture piece is custom designed, and the space is kept showroom ready. The couch is a semi-circle to match the shape of the living room, and it sits in front of a glass coffee table with a steel underside in the shape of an infinity symbol.
From this height, I can watch the sailboats peacefully trickle into the bay, the joggers, the people walking their dogs, all while I drink tea and eat the breakfast Syd usually serves me.
Syd leads me to the couch, politely asks me to sit and covers me with a fluffy white blanket. If he’s worried about me getting my blood on it, he doesn’t say.
“Just going to get my first-aid kit.”
He cleans and bandages my finger for me, including a cute kiss over the minor injury when he’s done.
“I’ll make you some tea, okay? And then I’ll apologize for whatever it was I did until I’m forgiven.”
Syd heads over to the kitchen, that I’ve got a clear view of from where I sit on the couch.
“You didn’t do anything. I had a bad experience with roses,” I say.
He nods but doesn’t say anything, taking off his blazer, and slinging it over one of his key lime art deco chairs. They look like matching one-armed thrones, the mirror image of the other.
Fuck, but the man is sexy.
Syd pretends not to watch me as he boils water and fiddles with fancy loose tea, but he is. He hasn’t shaved in a few days and his five o’clock shadow is extra dark. He grows it out for me. I told him I liked the way it scratched my face.
When the tea is done, he sets a handleless tea mug down on one of his wooden, hand-carved, “I love Whistler BC” coasters. He sits beside me, leaving space, making an effort to be close but not touch me, and clasps his hands.
“I have a confession to make,” he says.
“Oh, god, Syd. I don’t know that I can do a confession right now. You’re not gonna tell me you’re a serial killer are you?”
He laughs, quietly. “No.”
“On the run from the law?”
He shakes his head. “Not that either, but it’s something I should have told you sooner. It might make you throw that tea at me.”
“Then, see? Better wait until it cools.”
“What can I do for you in the meantime?”
I don’t even know. Stacey takes care of me when I’m like this. It doesn’t happen often anymore. Even roses aren’t enough to trigger me on a regular day, but I was already riled up and there were so many.
Is it so wrong that I want Stacey to take care of me when I’m like this?
“ N o, let’s get this over with.” I can’t help the grim tone, but with the summer I’ve had so far, what’s one more thing?
Syd takes a breath. “I know.”
I raise a brow. “Know what? You’re gonna have to be more specific.” He can’t know about the kiss between Stacey and I, can he?
“I know what happened to you. When you were younger.”
The floor falls out from under me. I stop breathing for a full three heartbeats. I would have rather found out he was a serial killer.
“How do you know that?” I grit my teeth.
Syd runs hands through his permanently bedraggled hair, and it somehow makes him even hotter than he was.
He’s a liar, but he’s a hot liar.
“It’s not just you. I have all my bedmates checked out before I get serious with them.”
“Just how many bedmates do you have?” Fuck. Fucking rich people. Because this is so a rich people thing to do. Us lesser folk can’t afford to have the people we wanna date investigated; we have to rely on whatever we can find on the internet.
“None since we’ve been serious, Dash. I swear. Nobody but you in a long time. I meant what I said when I told you I haven’t been this crazy about someone in years.”
“This is so fucked up.” But Syd’s lucky I’m somewhat desensitized to this kind of thing because of Rhett. He had someone follow Jack in secret because he wanted to keep him safe. He tried to do the same with Logan until Logan told him if he didn’t get rid of his silent entourage, he’d carve his nuts off with a spoon.
I suspect Rhett didn’t listen, but none of us have proof.
“I don’t know everything, clearly, or I would never have bought you those roses. Fuck, I promise, no roses will ever enter our home, never again.”
Our home. Right. Because married people live together. The thought of it still gets my stomach heaving. But Rhett and Logan don’t live together. Not technically. I kinda hoped I’d work out a deal like that.
“If I’m being completely honest, I hoped you’d tell me yourself,” he says.
“I didn’t want you to treat me differently.”
“Why would I do that? I know you’ve been to therapy, so I assume you’ve found a way to move past it?”
I didn’t tell him about the therapy thing. What else does he know about me?
“Wh-What if I still have some shitty residue? Then would you treat me differently?”
Syd’s quiet as he considers that. “Do you?”
The answer’s yes, isn’t it? Awesome. “Never mind. Got it.” I chug the delicious tea that he probably brought in bougie Yaletown or something.
He leans closer. “I love you, Dash, and I didn’t know what to do for you in the car. I almost …” He pauses, eyes watching me carefully. “I almost called Stacey.”
It pains him to say Stacey’s name. Guess he figures something’s up with us too.
“Okay, fair. You’d be worried about me all the time. Got it. Good thing my internal scars are all healed up.” I drink more coffee and hope he doesn’t ask any more questions.
“Dash,” he says. “I know that can’t be true. You had a panic attack about roses. You were muttering and mumbling. It took me a few tries to get your attention.”
I check my arms without thinking about it. No scratches. No bite marks. My body sags with relief.
“That hasn’t happened in a long time.” I must seem so crazy to him. I hold his gaze steady, but he doesn’t need to say anything for me to know how long ago the last time was, is irrelevant to him.
“I don’t plan on treating you any differently than my fiancé, and as your concerned fiancé, I’m hoping you’ll consider taking a few days off work, stay with me, maybe tell me a little bit—enough so I don’t make the mistake of picking up a floral arrangement that makes me want to kick my own ass?”
“I would, I mean, I will, but I have a confession of my own and you might not want me here after I tell you.”
He shakes his head. “There’s nothing you could say or do that would make me not want you here. Let’s save further confessions for another day. C’mon, call your dad. Tell him you’d like a few days off.”
It doesn’t escape my notice that what originally was a suggestion has evolved into a gentle order. It’s my brat nature to rally against that, but I tamp down on it. I rarely show that side to Syd. He’s not a big fan. Besides, I’m just too tired. Panic attacks take it out of you.
Only problem is, Dad’s gonna ask why. If I tell Dad the truth, he’ll be here to pick me up himself. Doing what Syd’s asking’s gonna require a lie.
What’s one more, I guess? I keep this stuff from Dad anyway, but that’s what my therapist is for. The rare times this happens these days—and it is fucking rare—I call her for an extra session.
“Okay, and I’ll call Billy, too,” I tell him so that he knows I’ve got things handled. He raises a brow. “My therapist. She does online sessions; I’ll book an extra one.”
Syd takes my free hand in both of his. They’re warm. “Once I know if I’m forgiven or not, I’ll tell you why I do recon on the people I get serious about, but I don’t want to influence your decision. It’ll make for good breakfast conversation.”
He’s right, I should have told him. Even Dirk said the same thing. Stacey sure as hell would. Just because everyone thinks so, doesn’t mean I’m obligated to—I know that—but I like knowing what other people would do. Especially when it’s hard to trust my gut reaction.
My gut reaction is surprisingly indifferent. Exactly what I didn’t want happened, but it’s a relief not carrying that around with me.
And.
Annnnd.
Actually.
Syd responding with the familiar concern everyone else has—namely Stacey—kinda proves just how normal Stacey’s reactions are.
“That smile bodes well for me.”
I nod. “You’re forgiven, but no more recon. You wanna know something, you ask, and I’ll tell you if I want to.”
“Promise. Cross my heart.”