35. Addy
Chapter thirty-five
Addy
S unlight spills through half-drawn curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. I stir, groggy and disoriented from the deep sleep that had claimed me. The first sensation that registers is weight—an arm draped over my waist, a leg tangled with mine. Chess is still curled up behind me, his breath steady against the nape of my neck.
"Morning," I murmur, not daring to move too much.
"Mmm," Chess hums, his voice thick with sleep.
I crane my neck to peek at the room and catch sight of Dre sprawled at the foot, one arm slung over his eyes as if to shield them from the light. His tattoos seem softer in the morning's gentle illumination, less like battle scars and more like art. The pattern of raised skin they cover glints in the daylight.
"That can't be comfortable, Dre," I tease quietly, hoping to ease into the day with a bit of humor.
"Wouldn't say that," Dre mumbles, removing his arm to squint at us. A lazy smile pulls at his lips. "Got a hell of a view from down here."
My cheeks warm at his words, but before I can think of a comeback, movement catches my eye. Saint's presence is almost unnoticeable in the corner, dark curls tousled from what must have been an uncomfortable night in a chair. He doesn't sleep like the others; there's an alertness to him even now, his jaw set in that familiar hard line.
Gen's voice cuts in, laced with sarcasm as she sits up, her hair a wild mess. "Why do I even bother locking the door? It's like living in a frat house."
"You knew locks weren't gonna keep me away from my snowflake," Dre quips, winking at Gen.
"Shut it, Roberts," Gen tosses back, though the corners of her mouth twitch upwards.
We're all awake now, the remnants of sleep quickly fading. The familiarity between us feels both thrilling and terrifying. This isn't just another morning; it's a threshold of something new, something undefined but palpable.
Gen claps her hands, punctuating the silence. "Who's up for breakfast?"
As we each begin to untangle ourselves from the heap we ended up in, I realize that despite everything, I'm looking forward to what the day might bring.
??????
The stairs creak beneath my feet as I trail behind Gen and the others, a silent procession descending into the heart of unfamiliar territory. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wraps around us before we even reach the last step.
I pause at the entrance to the kitchen, taking in the sight of Mason with his back to us. His movements are sure and methodical as he pours the dark liquid into a row of waiting mugs. The steam rises in lazy spirals, and for a moment, I'm transfixed by the normalcy of it all.
"Morning," Mason says without turning, his voice a rich timbre that seems to vibrate through the room. "Coffee?"
The others rush forward and claim their mugs. When I don't, Mason turns to me, "Addy?"
"Uh, sure." My response is automatic, but my feet remain rooted in place. I've never been good at small talk, never learned the delicate dance of pleasantries exchanged over breakfast tables. What do you say to someone who's barely more than a stranger, yet extends a kindness you're not used to?
"Black okay?" he asks, finally looking over his shoulder with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Or there's milk, cream, and sugar."
"Black's fine," I reply, my voice sounding small and distant to my own ears. I shuffle forward, suddenly conscious of how disheveled I must appear after spending the night in a bed that wasn't mine wrapped up in boys I'm only just beginning to understand.
"I know we've met, but I don't think we've ever been properly introduced," Mason continues as he hands me a mug. His fingers brush mine briefly, a touch so light I might have imagined it. "I'm Mason."
"Addy," I manage to say, though he already knows my name. I wrap my hands around the warmth of the mug, grateful for something to hold onto. It's strange, standing here with him, feeling the weight of a gaze that doesn't seem to judge or demand anything from me.
"Nice to meet you, Addy." There's an earnestness in Mason's tone that catches me off guard. "You're welcome here anytime. Gen seems quite taken with you. And Rhett..."
"Thanks." The word feels alien on my tongue. Thanks. As if gratitude is something I should be capable of expressing without suspicion. But Mason just nods, as if my terse reply is enough, as if he understands the language of walls I've built around myself.
"Rough night?" His question is casual, but I can tell there's genuine concern there. It's disarming, the way he sees right through to the core of me, to the tangle of thorns where a simpler version of myself might have once lived.
"Something like that," I say, opting for truth wrapped in vagueness. To explain would require revealing more of myself than I'm willing to bare to someone who hasn't yet proven whether they're friend or foe.
He turns away, giving me respite from the intensity of connection, only to busy himself with the rest of the breakfast preparations. "You'll get through it, whatever it is. You seem like the type who does."
"Maybe." I take a sip of the coffee, letting the bitterness ground me. In this moment, with the sun peeking through the blinds and casting golden lines across the tiled floor, I allow myself a breath, a beat, a fleeting second to imagine what it's like to be part of a world where mornings come with coffee and quiet concern instead of cold shoulders and cutting words.
Amidst the clatter of pans and the sizzle of bacon, I hover on the periphery, unsure where to place myself in this kitchen ballet. Then Mason glances over his shoulder, a disarming smile cutting through my hesitance.
"Grab a plate, Addy. Breakfast is almost ready," he says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world for me to be here.
He's going to feed me? I can feel gratitude swelling in my chest. A feeling I quickly push down; kindness always comes with a price tag.
I watch him work, flipping pancakes with an ease that speaks of many mornings spent at the stove. He places a stack on the center island, and the aroma of maple syrup fills the air. My stomach growls, betraying my calm exterior.
"Sit down, everyone," Mason commands gently, and we all take our seats. Saint slides a plate towards me—one he's already piled with food—and I nod in thanks.
Mason joins us, his presence like a gravitational pull, bringing us into orbit around the table. He serves himself last, ensuring we've all been taken care of first. It's so... parental. I'm not used to that.
"Man, these are good," Dre compliments, digging into his food with gusto. There's a fondness in his ice-blue eyes as they meet Mason's, a shared history in that simple exchange.
"Best in town," Chess agrees, his voice light, but there's a reverence there, a respect deeper than just the appreciation of a well-cooked meal.
"Mason's got skills," Saint adds with a smirk, and there's a softening around his eyes that I've never seen before. The intimidating facade slips, revealing a boy who has found safety in this man's care.
"Thanks, Daddy," Gen chimes in, her voice bright and warm like the sunlight filtering in.
"Of course, it's nothing," Mason replies, but his eyes tell a different story—one of pride and love for these kids who aren't all his, but somehow are.
They're a patchwork family, stitched together by need and choice rather than blood. And it's beautiful.
A pang hits my chest, sharp and longing as I take a bite of the fluffy pancakes. This is what it means to belong, what it feels like to be woven into the fabric of others' lives. I swallow hard against the emotion, take another sip of coffee, and let the warmth seep into the cold corners of my heart. Maybe, just maybe, there's a thread here for me, too.
But, my reprieve is coming to an end.
My phone's persistent buzz startles me, a harsh intrusion. I slide it from the table, the screen lighting up with a barrage of messages that instantly tighten the muscles in my shoulders—Cheryl.
Where are you?
Answer your phone now, Addy.
Your father and I demand to know when you'll return.
Each message is a cold finger tracing my spine, reminding me of the life I'm momentarily escaping. I try to keep my face neutral, but I can feel Chess's eyes on me, noting the shift in my demeanor.
"Everything okay?" His voice is low, threaded with concern that seems genuine.
"Uh, yeah." I force a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "Just my mom. She wants to know when I'll be home."
"Speaking of home," Mason begins, a slight hesitation in his voice as if he's weighing his words carefully. "We've been invited over for dinner again tonight at your house."
"Really?" I manage to murmur, tucking away my phone. The device feels heavy with Cheryl's demands.
"Yes. Your parents seem keen to nurture the budding friendship between you, Gen, and Rhett."
"Right."
Dre catches my glance and gives me a subtle nod, as if to say, 'We've got your back.' It's strange how the simple presence of these people around me can make the prospect of facing another night at the Winthrop residence seem bearable.
I just wish I knew what they wanted from me.
??????
The moment the car's tires crunch over the gravel of our driveway, I feel it—the impending interrogation. As soon as I step out, Cheryl is at the door, arms folded, her eyes narrowing into slits that could cut glass.
"Addy," she begins, her voice a mix of faux concern and underlying steel, "you were gone far too long."
William looms behind her, his presence like a silent storm cloud ready to burst. "Yes, your... friends," he says, the word 'friends' oozing disdain, "seem to have quite an influence on you. We don't like you spending nights away from home."
No, I don't imagine you do.
I tuck a strand of blonde hair behind my ear, steadying myself. "I'm sorry. We were getting back so late, and you had told Gen it was okay," I reply, trying to keep my voice even. They can't know how much their scrutiny cracks the armor I've built around my heart.
"And how was I supposed to say no to the girl? You should have known better, Adelaide."
"You told me to give them whatever they wanted? Gen wanted me to join her at the party and stay over afterward."
"Really?" Cheryl pounces on my words. "That's not what Wesley suggested."
"Doesn't matter what Wesley suggests," I shoot back before I can stop myself.
"Adelaide," William says sharply, "this behavior is unbecoming. You're a Winthrop—you must act accordingly."
I nod, though every fiber in me wants to rebel. "Understood."
"Go to your room. We'll discuss consequences later," Cheryl commands with a dismissive wave. "Be prepared for dinner by 4:30 sharp. The Whitmans and their riffraff will be joining us this evening. Your dress is on your bed. Do not disappoint."
As I ascend the staircase, I can almost feel the weight of their stares drilling into my back. My room is supposed to be a sanctuary, but as I push the door open, I'm greeted by the last person I want to see—Wesley, standing there like he's the king of my personal space.
"Thought you could sneak back in, huh?" His voice drips with accusation and something uglier.
"Get out, Wesley," I demand, my hands balling into fists.
"They know you're whoring yourself out to all three of those heathens." He steps closer, his height meant to intimidate.
"Just as I was told," I snap, green eyes blazing despite the tremor in my words.
"Don't twist their intentions, Adelaide," he sneers, twisting my name into something tainted. "You think you're so special? Please. You're nothing but a game to them."
"I'm aware of my place in things," I retort.
"You're playing with fire," Wesley warns, his gaze cold and calculating.
"Maybe I like the heat," I say, locking eyes with him, refusing to be the one who looks away first.
"Be careful, Adelaide," he says, using my full name like a weapon. "You might get burned."
"Out!" I point toward the door, my resolve as firm as the walls I've built around my heart. He smirks, but he leaves, and I'm left alone in the silence of my room, bracing for whatever comes next.
After Wesley slinks away, the quiet throb of my heartbeat is a reminder that I'm still standing, still fighting. But he's right isn't he? I can't trust them.
With a deep breath, I shake off the remnants of our confrontation and turn to face the evening ahead.
Cheryl's instructions echo in my memory—the dress for tonight's dinner, laid out on my bed like a silent command. I approach it with a mixture of apprehension and rebellion stirring within me. It’s tight and revealing, designed to sculpt every curve and whisper secrets I'd rather keep hidden. But this is their game, and I must play.
I turn my attention to my shelves. Everything seems to be in place still. The porcelain dolls I'd never wanted, the decorative clock that didn't even work, the nonfiction books I'd been expected to read, and all the little knickknacks I've collected are exactly as I left them.
Slipping into the fabric feels like donning armor, each pull and tug a choice to face them—my so-called family—on my own terms. The mirror reflects back a stranger, all blonde hair and green eyes wrapped in a dress too bold for the slip of a girl I'd become.
"Perfect," I whisper, though the word tastes like irony.
The clock ticks closer to the hour, and I can hear the sound of a car pulling up the driveway. My skin prickles, half with dread, half with something akin to relief. They're here, and somehow, that means I'm not alone.
"Princess," Saint greets, his voice low and steady. There's a storm behind his dark eyes, but it's distant, held at bay.
"Saint," I nod, acknowledging the tension that hums between us.
Dre's ice-blue gaze sweeps over me, and he smirks, "Missed you, snowflake."
Chess steps forward, his hazel eyes alight with mischief. "Well, don't you look delicious?"
"Thank you," I bite my bottom lip, the corners of my mouth curving into a smile that might actually reach my eyes.
We move into the dining room, where the table is set with crystal and silver, a stage for the evening's performance. I slide into my seat, the dress clinging tighter with each movement.
Tonight Cheryl has sandwiched me between Chess and Saint, with Gen across from me and Dre on the other side of Chess. They eye me as I'm served broth while they're served lobster bisque with a drizzle of cognac.
The clink of cutlery against porcelain fills the space as we're served the main course. Plate filled with filet mignon with a red wine reduction sauce, truffle-infused mashed potatoes, grilled white asparagus spears, and wild mushroom risotto are placed in front of everyone but me.
My gaze drops to my plate, a small salad sitting solitary in its vast whiteness. I'm about to lift my fork when Saint's hand covers mine, stopping me.
"Wait," he says, his voice low but edged with something commanding, something protective.
"What?" I question, tilting my head to meet his gaze, which is fixed somewhere beyond my shoulder.
"That's not enough food," he claims before turning to the server standing awkwardly by the table. "Bring her another plate. One that matches mine."
The server, caught off guard, nods hastily and scurries away. Saint, not satisfied with waiting, reaches across the table for a piece of bread. Without asking, he begins to butter one and place it onto my plate beside the lonely salad.
It's a strange warmth that blossoms in my chest, alien and yet comforting. It curdles and chills.
Across the table, Cheryl's eyes lock onto mine. Her gaze is sharp, a dagger thrown silently across the distance. She parts her lips, then closes them again, a clear sign that she's holding back words meant only for later, in the shadows, away from prying eyes.
I draw in a deep breath, steadying myself against the threat of her look. For now, I'm shielded by the presence of our guests. But the warning is received loud and clear: the battle lines have been drawn.
The server returns and places a new plate in front of me, one filled with the same meal that was served to everyone else. This is a first for me. I have never once been served the same dinner as my family.
"Eat," Saint urges, nudging the plate closer to me with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. He turns his gaze over my shoulder again and presses his lips into a thin line.
As I raise the fork to my lips, Cheryl's piercing blue eyes bore into me like shards of broken glass, making my skin crawl. But I refuse to let her intimidate me as I savor the first mouthful of real food I've had in this dreary house.
I'll pay for it later. But, that's nothing new.