Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Kit
Sometimes the best part of the day is walking through the front door, peeling off your shoes, and . . . finding someone in my house?
“Hey, you.” I set my backpack down by the door. “Umm, not that I mind, but why are you here? Did I forget something?”
Cleo, my best friend, designated partner-in-crime, and occasional couch pirate, is sprawled across my couch.
One hand is clutching a bowl of popcorn, and the other is holding the remote.
Her long legs are tangled in the throw I just washed last night.
Allegra is curled up beside her, purring like she pays rent.
At least tonight, she won’t be sulking. I left her alone most of the day, and she’s dramatic about abandonment. They told me she’d be low maintenance, a “chill companion.”
They lied.
I swear my cat has attachment issues. She’s a vindictive little demon who would definitely try to smother me in my sleep if I’m gone longer than eight hours.
“I mean, you had a busy day,” I say, trying to ignore my cat while I wonder if I should just rehome her with Cleo because she likes her better. “You mentioned something about disappearing and . . . I can’t remember what else.”
“I hate men,” she declares, releasing a sigh so theatrical it should come with background music and rain hitting a windowpane.
Okay, so we’re having a bad day and need a little pick me up. I can do that.
“Tell Kit what happened with Vincent?” I ask, wincing as I say the name. I’m pretty sure I got it wrong.
No one should blame me. She’s been cycling through men like she’s trying to find the least disappointing flavor in a stale variety pack. The last one had the vibe of a bootleg mobster from a low-budget fifties film.
She scoffs and flicks her wrist. “That’s been over.
And his name was Viktor—with a K. He claimed he was German but was actually born somewhere in Idaho, or was it Iowa .
. . something with an I, I’m almost sure.
” Her face twists as if that’s the most offensive part.
The man lying about his origins, which is probably true.
Nobody likes a liar.
“So why are we hating men today?” I ask, heading to the fridge and grabbing a bottle of Chardonnay. White goes with popcorn, right? Good tones and all that pairing bullshit.
“Mostly the Wilder men,” she grumbles.
“Brothers, father . . . the whole testosterone circus?”
She doesn’t answer right away, just jabs a popcorn kernel into her mouth as if she wishes it were someone’s eyeball. That tells me everything I need to know. I twist open the wine, grab two glasses, and settle next to her.
“I’m here, I’m all ears.”
She shakes her head.
“Come on, don’t be stubborn,” I insist. “You know you need to let it out.”
Her lip twitches a little but then . . . “It’s about Roderick. You don’t want to hear it,” she warns, her voice soft, eyes still on the screen.
She’s right. I don’t want to hear about that particular brother.
There’s not enough alcohol in this apartment to brace for a Roderick Wilder conversation.
Actually, there’s not enough alcohol in the entire universe for that.
Still, I’m her best friend. There’s a clause in the friendship manual that states I have to sit through emotional purges, even when I’d rather gouge out my eardrums with a cocktail umbrella.
“Lay it on me. I’ll listen even if you have to talk about him.”
She glances at me, then chews her lip. I know that look. That’s her ‘should I ruin her night with this shit?’ face.
“The Roderick Wilder is out of rehab,” she finally says. “I made a perfect escape. No one knows where he was or where I dropped him.”
My stomach tightens—not that I give a shit—but his name still leaves a residual burn, like the aftereffects of tequila and regret.
Not that we ever really were together; he was just my first heartbreak, and the first always leaves a lot of debris behind.
Let’s just say I blame him for all the bad decisions I’ve made since I was sixteen.
“So, it went well?” I ask, trying to sound neutral, not angry at all. You’d think twelve years would have changed the way I feel about him.
Nope. I’m angrier at him. Every day, I hate him just a little more.
“He’s good?” That’s a good question, right?
“I guess he’s as good as you can be after rehab. Dad wanted me to ship him to California so he could help him—whatever that means.” She glances at me. “We both know that’s a bad idea.”
“Bad idea.” I bob my head in agreement—see, I’m still neutral.
“Then there’s Julian, who said I’m enabling the prodigal child.” She shuts her eyes for a second and breathes. “I’m not, but I can’t convince him that our brother needs help.”
“Of course you can’t. He’s a Wilder—stubborn as they come.” See? I’m participating. Yay, Kit. Points for not having a meltdown.
“Rhodes told me not to call him if he fucks everything up—or dies.” She says it casually, but her voice fractures just enough to betray the storm beneath. Of course she doesn’t want her older brother to die.
“He won’t die,” I reassure her, but I’m not sure how to follow that. If I say something like, ‘he’s as sturdy as a cockroach,’ it sounds a bit cruel. If I tell her how I feel . . . well, I won’t come out looking like a good person. Which leaves me to empty my glass of wine and pour more.
“Alfie still won’t talk to us. Duchess doesn’t like us, and therefore he should stay away from the Wilder family.”
“Duchess.” I snort as I repeat the name of his current girlfriend. “I still can’t believe that’s her actual name.”
Cleo rolls her eyes. “It is, and she believes she’s royalty. If Prince Felipe VI of Spain turned her way, she’d drop my brother faster than you can say abdication.”
I laugh, almost choking on my wine.
She shrugs, unfazed. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“No, you’re not.” I don’t know Duchess personally, but after all the stories I’ve heard about her . . . “You’re one hundred percent right.”
“Let’s forget all about me. Tell me about your day, Kit. I don’t need to talk about my brothers and my father. It’s like they need a babysitter and I . . .” She sighs. “I’m done with all of them. No wonder my mother left them. Aren’t you happy that your family isn’t a clusterfuck like mine?”
There are so many things I wish for, but . . . thinking about ifs is stupid and wishes are almost like childish dreams.
I mean, in a way, my mother left us. Not the way hers did, which might be even worse. Isn’t it?