Chapter 23
23
brYCE
“ T’es enfin arrivée .”
“No pleasantries today, Mom?” I ask, ignoring her dig about our intentional tardiness.
I learned my punctuality from her, which is how I knew that showing up today fifteen minutes late would piss her off. My bad.
Dressed in a simple white sundress with her ears and neck weighed down with pearls, Claudine Lemieux welcomes us into my childhood home with a hidden grimace.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Lemieux. You have a beautiful home,” Daisy says brightly, not waiting for me to give a forced introduction before stepping in.
I walk into the house with stone legs, but she floats in, a soft, natural smile on her face as she stares at my mother. It’s hard to tell if this is an act or if, like usual, this is just Daisy being herself.
“Daisy, I presume?” Mom asks absently.
“Yep. Daisy Mitchell. Again, I just want to say how nice it is to meet the woman who raised the one I’ve fallen head over heels in love with. ”
I don’t breathe.
Can’t.
The statement pounds in my mind, already on its own memory reel and tucked in an easy-to-reach shelf for later.
Warmth slips up my arm before a solid pressure envelops my entire side. Floral perfume soaks into my clothes and imbeds itself in my skin as Daisy leans into me and palms my opposite hip.
It’s nearly impossible for my chest to expand on a breath, and when I finally figure it out, I’m gulping air.
“Love? This is the first I’m seeing of you,” Mom guffaws, letting the door swing shut with a slam.
Leaving Daisy and me behind, she stalks through the entrance and disappears into the formal dining room. I wait for Daisy to release me, but she doesn’t even spare me a glance before dragging us after my mother.
I’m dead weight, my feet moving of their own violation. My reaction to Daisy’s easy, flowing words is alarming. I’m not a fool. I know she was lying. But that doesn’t mean that they didn’t still rip my chest open and leave me standing here with my heart on full display.
“Tell me something about her that I can use to start a conversation,” she whispers.
“She has three siblings. All brothers.”
“Really? You have three uncles?”
“Yes.”
Her thumb drifts above my skirt, grazing my bare stomach and the goosebumps that cover it. “Alright. We have a big family in common. What about your dad?”
“He won’t be here.”
A low, deep rumble of a voice floats from the dining room, and I pause. Daisy laughs quietly.
“I saw a pair of men’s shoes by the front door,” she answers the question I haven’t asked.
I clear my throat. My stomach churns in a weird way, a wave of nausea storming in that I force to the back of my mind.
“He’s never home. ”
“I imagine being a mayor is a busy job.”
“It’s Cherry Peak, not Toronto,” I mutter.
Her grin is big enough I can see it clearly from the corner of my vision. “Fair enough.”
There are quiet words being spoken when we enter the dining room. They come to a stop immediately as two sets of eyes fall on us.
“Mr. Lemieux. I’m Daisy Mitchell.”
She releases me to step forward and offer my father her hand. I’m struck by how large of a man he is when he accepts her hand and dwarfs her in size. Her hand disappears in his, and he stares at me above her head, curiosity blaringly apparent in his aged features. I roll my eyes.
Out of both my parents, my father has always been the one most accepting of me. I always told myself that he just didn’t give a shit enough about me to care one way or another who I was attracted to. It was easier than believing he actually might have cared enough to think about my life and what I wanted.
It’s a bit more settling to see him here with Mom. While she’s never outwardly said anything to admit that she would prefer if I were straight, sometimes it doesn’t take those exact words. Her obvious favouring of men and disinterest in my life where women are involved explains more than an outright admission would.
I’ve long since stopped caring what she thinks, but my father makes it harder to do the same. At least until he forgets how to stand up to her and instead lets her walk all over me without saying a fucking thing.
“Hello, Daisy,” Dad says, releasing her hand a moment later.
She moves back to my side without hesitation, holding me the same way as earlier. As if it’s easy to touch me like this.
As if she likes to.
“You have a beautiful home. I noticed a gazebo outside. Was that here when you bought the house?” she asks.
“No, actually, I put it in a few years later. Bryce was always playing guitar outside when she was young and kept burning her scalp in the sun because she refused to wear a hat. It was my attempt to keep her out of the sun while still letting her be outside.”
Daisy twists to face me, eyes bright with newfound information. “You play guitar?”
“No. I gave it up when Mom told me it was a ridiculous hobby. And I don’t remember the gazebo being for me and not just a decoration piece.” My words bite as I flush hot, the back of my neck growing damp with sweat.
It’s not an angry heat despite how fucking annoyed I am with my parents. There’s something off about it. Same with the tightening of my stomach, my skin cooling despite my rising temperature.
Mom sucks in a loud breath. “Not in front of guests.”
“Do you still remember how to play?” Daisy asks me, not sparing my mother a glance.
I curl my arm around her back and tug her the slightest bit closer, hoping she can’t tell that I’m using her as comfort. There’s something about touching her like this that warms the innermost parts of myself, as if her sunshine is able to slip through the cracks and blind the darkness.
I may be a hard, cruel person, but I still believe I have a fragile, battered soul. The kind that strikes first out of fear and doesn’t allow for any prisoners. My defenses are high, but once you manage to slip past them, you’re granted free rein.
Daisy’s so far past my defenses that she’s not even detectable anymore.
Eyes fixed on her, I lower my mouth to her temple and breathe in, hoping her smell will settle my stomach. “We’d have to sit down one night and see.”
“I’d like that,” she murmurs, the tops of her cheeks taking on a pink hue.
“Bryce is right. The gazebo has become more of a lawn decoration these past few years, I’m afraid. ”
Dad steals Daisy’s attention, and I glare at him before I’m fully aware of what I’m doing. He’s too tuned in to those around him to miss it. The curiosity I saw moments ago returns, now higher in intensity.
“Enough of the gazebo. I’ve arranged a light meal for us. Sit,” Mom demands.
On the ridiculously long dining table, she’s arranged four place settings, complete with fabric napkins and pale blue cushions on the chairs. My stomach rolls at the food already plated up, an invisible fist punching me deep in the gut.
I didn’t pick up the scent of fish when we arrived, but now that I see it, it’s everywhere. In my hair and on my clothes. Even on my lips, the remembrance of the taste seeping onto my tongue.
Pressing my lips together, I fight back a gag and divert my stare, focusing on the bottle of red wine already uncorked. It doesn’t help. The thought of eating or drinking anything makes me sway on my feet.
Daisy steps into me and softly taps my cheek. “Are you okay?”
“Yep,” I croak.
Mom hovers on the other side of the table, waiting for Dad to finish pulling her chair out. Smoothing down the puffy skirt of her dress, she sits and presses a kiss to his clean-shaven cheek.
“Sit down, Bryce. Arrête avec ton attitude .”
“What did you say? I’m sorry, I don’t speak French,” Daisy says.
“Oh, nothing. Now, don’t be rude, Bryce.”
“You look a little green,” Dad points out, pretending to be worried.
Daisy presses the back of her hand to my scorching hot forehead and furrows her brows. “You feel really warm. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
I roll my eyes up to stare at the ceiling and take a small inhale before nodding and looking back at the food on the table. My stomach thrashes so violently I have to press a hand to it as I take the chair opposite my mother.
Daisy follows close behind me, not allowing more than a couple of inches between us. Even as she sits on my right, she doesn’t stop looking at me, not even bothering to pretend to believe what I’m trying to sell everyone.
Her hand clasps on my bare thigh below the hem of my skirt, and my stomach has a fit for a completely different reason.
The smell of fish is so much stronger at the table. My lips part as I’m forced to breathe through my mouth and swallow the burn of vomit creeping up my throat. It’s almost worse this way.
Risking a look at my plate, I see the roasted asparagus tucked beneath the edge of a thick piece of salmon. The yellow sauce that’s been drizzled over the top seems to make my nausea worse, and before I can stop it, I gag.
Loudly.
Daisy’s head swings in my direction before she’s leaning over and bringing her face close to mine, our noses almost touching. “Bryce?”
“I’m going to be sick,” I whisper.
Scrambling back from the table, I get the fuck away from everyone and the food that’s driven me to this point. Jogging out of the room, I slap a hand to my mouth and dive into the closest bathroom.
My knees slam against the floor so hard pain splinters up my legs as I flip the toilet lid and heave the contents of my stomach. It’s one of my most embarrassing moments, and I couldn’t even get up to shut the door if I tried.
Nose burning, I manage to drape my hair behind my shoulders. I’m going up in flames as I continue throwing up, my body hunched over the toilet.
“Oh, Frosty.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and lean my forehead on my arm, hoping I’ve just made her up and that she isn’t actually here to see this .
“Here,” her gentle voice chimes.
Shivers zip up and down my body when my hair is pulled back with careful fingers and an elastic is wrapped around it.
“I knew you weren’t okay, but I didn’t know you were sick like this. We wouldn’t have come here if I had, sweetheart.”
A very real, very non-imaginable hand sweeps up and down my back, even as I hurl again, sweat clinging to my face and neck.
“My parents aren’t here,” I mumble.
“No, they’re not.”
So no nicknames, I almost say. Should plead. Especially not one like sweetheart.
“I didn’t feel sick earlier.”
She keeps stroking my back in slow, comforting circles. “Good. I wouldn’t have wanted to make you feel worse just to come here of all places.”
“It was the fish.”
“Just the fish? You feel really warm, Bryce.”
I hum, my throat raw and sore as I close my eyes. “I don’t get sick.”
“Nobody is exempt from getting sick. Not even stubborn women,” she teases.
With weak arms, I push myself back enough to flush the toilet but don’t look at her. I’m a fucking mess right now. And despite throwing up everything I’ve eaten in the last fucking week, I don’t feel any better.
I’m sluggish and dizzy, like I’ve run a marathon on an empty stomach. My muscles feel like jelly, making it near impossible to keep myself upright as I collapse against the toilet, my ears ringing.
“Mr. Lemieux!”
I stop fighting the pull of sleep and close my eyes. Just for a second.
When I open them again, I’m not in the bathroom.
A searing pain lashes through my head, the focal point behind my eyes telling me it’s a migraine. My stomach is sensitive, clinching as I shift on a . . . bed? There’s a pillow beneath my head that smells like the essential oils my mother drenches the house in.
With a cough to clear my throat, I attempt to open my eyes. It hurts like a bitch, and the throb behind them pushes harder, forcing me to squeeze them shut with a groan.
“Bryce? What’s wrong?”
“You’re still here?” I scrape the question up my throat, hating how weak I sound.
The bed shifts, and I flinch when a cool cloth is placed on my forehead. Warm breath puffs across my cheek.
“Of course I am. I’m not leaving you here alone, and there was no way I was risking waking you up to go home,” she says sternly.
“What the fuck happened?”
And why do I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck?
She smooths my hair out of my face, a lone finger tracing the edge of my hairline. “I’m pretty sure you have the flu. Are you sure you were feeling okay when we left the house?”
“I was fine. I thought I felt sick when we got here, but I’m used to feeling some sort of discomfort whenever I’m here.”
She sighs, scraping her nails against my scalp. I swallow a moan before it can slip out and squeeze my eyes shut tighter.
“Does your head hurt?” she murmurs.
“Like a bitch.”
“How’s your stomach?”
“Sore.”
It feels like someone’s used the inside of it for punching practice.
“I’m going to get some supplies, and then I’ll be right back, okay? If you need me, please call. Scream if you need to. This place is a serious castle, and I might get lost.”
“I want to go back home. Don’t get shit from my parents.”
Forcing my eyelids open, I wince at the pain the small stream of sunlight brings to my head and curse. My stomach folds in on itself as I lean forward and curl my fingers in the thick duvet thrown over me.
“Don’t. We’re not going anywhere until you’re not one step from falling asleep on me again.”
She leans over and pushes me back down with a hand on my shoulder. I know I won’t be able to keep my eyes open for much longer, but I refuse to shut them again without looking at her.
Concern is etched on every inch of her face and lies heavy in her eyes, deepening the blue. The downturn of her lips is so subtle that I have to stare to realize she’s actually frowning. Emotion clogs my throat, guilt slapping me across the face.
“I’m fine, Sunshine. A few painkillers and I’ll be good to go.”
It’s such a fucking lie. My eyes slide shut, and I clench my teeth as much as I can, given how tired I am.
“No, you are not fine, Bryce. But I will find you some painkillers. I’ll be right back.”
Somehow, I’m able to lift my arm enough to reach for her before I fall asleep and she disappears. Her fingers are so cold when I cover them and bring them to my chest.
“Don’t go yet.”
“Let me help you,” she whispers, the heat from her other hand so close to my cheek but not touching, just hovering.
“You’re better than medicine.”
“Sleep, Bryce. I’ll be here.”
Her cool fingers trace the corner of my mouth, and then—then I swear I feel her lips replace them. Just the ghost of a touch, but it’s enough to make my cheeks burn as I grin in my sleep.
It’s the best kiss I’ve ever had. Even if I am dreaming.