Chapter 24
24
DAISY
Bryce’s smile lingers after her breathing evens out in sleep. I’m held captive by the sight of it, unable to look away as I continue running my fingers through her damp hair, trying to untangle it without a brush.
Her smile is as rare as the peace in her expression and lack of thoughts that keep her brows in a perpetual state of tugged inward.
Being this close to her while she’s in such a vulnerable state is something I doubt many can claim to have experienced. I feel an overwhelming sense of appreciation knowing that I’m now one of those few, even if the circumstances are less than ideal.
Her parents being on the other side of this room grinds my gears. I’m on high alert, my protective instincts blaring. It’s upsetting that I feel the need to protect her from her parents in the first place, but after only spending a few minutes with them, I recognized that they aren’t the right people to take care of her right now.
Her mom is too pompous and high on herself to realize that she’s ruined her relationship with her daughter, and her father turns a blind eye to everything her mother says. He might very well have a good heart and genuinely care for Bryce, but he’s doing a terrible job of showing it.
She deserves more from them. Love and understanding and support.
Everything that I’ve been lucky enough to receive from my moms. There hasn’t been a single day in my life where I didn’t feel like they were my biggest fans. Sometimes it’s easy to take for granted the relationships we have, but after today, I’m realizing how blessed I am.
Our parents hold such an important position in our lives. They’re supposed to love us unconditionally, nurture always, and teach us right from wrong. The world around us will always change, but family is supposed to be everlasting. So why does Bryce’s appear as though it’s one wrong comment away from crumbling?
Stroking her hairline, I let my gaze linger on the slow droop of her smile. The damp cloth on her forehead is warm now, so I peel it off and reluctantly get off the bed. She doesn’t move a muscle as the mattress shifts with my weight.
There’s no one in the hallway when I step out and shut the door behind me with a soft click. The Lemieux house is intimidating enough on the outside, but inside, it’s somehow worse. When Bryce’s father carried her into this room, I wasn’t bothering to make note of which hallways we were heading down or how many doors we passed. Bryce was my focus.
Now, I realize it would have been easier if I had been more aware of my surroundings.
The hallway is long, with too many doors on either side and a bright light shining at the end where it curves. My socks hide my footsteps as I pad along the sleek floors.
A staircase is down the curved hall, and I make a beeline for it. White walls are everywhere with boring, minimalist artwork hung on them. The lack of family photos on this floor would be alarming if I were anywhere else. My childhood home, for example .
There were a few on the main level that I noticed when we arrived, but other than that . . . it’s been quite sad.
Gripping onto the staircase railing, I take the stairs carefully, not wanting to make enough noise to draw attention to myself. I’m not doing anything wrong, but I’m a stranger to Bryce’s parents and could do with avoiding any weird encounters right now.
I need to find medication, a bowl for Bryce in case she can’t make it to the bathroom next time she has to throw up, and to cool this cloth back off. Then I can go back to her.
The main floor is as empty and quiet as the second. No chatter or television noise. I’d even settle for some soft music just to fill the void as I slip into what I hope is the kitchen and freeze.
Grabbing the doorframe, I keep still, as if that’ll turn me invisible or something.
Bryce’s mother must have some freaky motion-detecting superpower because the moment I take a silent step backward, she’s whipping around and pinning me with sharp, distrusting eyes.
“What are you doing?” she snaps.
I wet my lips and release the doorframe. “Bryce needs medicine. And a bucket or a bowl.”
She hums, patting the skirt of her dress. “We don’t keep medication in the kitchen.”
“What about a bowl?”
“We don’t use bowls. There should be a bucket in the garage. I’ll have my husband find and bring it to you.”
Who doesn’t have a family puke bowl? Geez, we are from completely different tax brackets.
“Thank you,” I say and then turn, prepared to leave.
Something stops me. A tug deep inside myself.
Facing her again, I flex my fingers at my side and lift my chin. “Did you know that Bryce doesn’t like fish?”
“She is too picky. ”
“Actually, she’s not. But you took the one food she doesn’t like and made sure it was here today. Why? Just to upset her?”
Claudine sets a hand on the kitchen island and leans against it, hip popped. It’s a position that’s so Bryce-like it’s almost hard to believe. The tight pull of her features should have me abandoning this conversation before things get out hand, but again, something stops me.
“Who are you to judge me, Daisy Mitchell?” She sneers my name as if that’ll intimidate me.
It doesn’t. Not even close. “I’m your daughter’s girlfriend. Someone important in her life that looks out for her. And right now, that’s exactly what I’m doing. Don’t push me, Mrs. Lemieux. Bryce is worth protecting.”
“She doesn’t need protection from me! I’m only looking out for her as a mother should.”
“You’re not looking out for her, though. You’re hurting her.”
The apples of her full cheeks glow with a flaming red. Knuckles white from her grip on the island, she knots her eyebrows.
“You know nothing. Rien du tout. ”
“I know more than you think. And I can confidently say that you continuing to disregard her sexuality and preferences has broken her trust in you. There’s strain on your relationship that’s obvious to everyone. Even a stranger looking in. And it won’t go away until you leave your ideologies at the door and embrace her for who she is and what she wants,” I say, unashamed of how loud I’ve gotten.
She turns her nose up at me, completely disregarding everything I’ve said. I don’t know why I was hoping she would take my advice into consideration when clearly, she’s too stuck in her own ways and beliefs to care at all about Bryce’s.
I swallow my frustration before adding, “You may think that by not telling her you wish she would just like men, that you’re being supportive of her bisexuality, but in all honesty, Mrs. Lemieux, you’re not. What she needs to hear from you is that she’s accepted the way she is, regardless of who she wants to love. And if you can’t do that, then you need to leave her be. Setting her up on blind dates with men when she’s been vocal about not being interested in a straight relationship is not allyship, and it certainly isn’t parental support.”
My chest rises and falls quickly, every inhale shaky and exhale confident. It’s a lot to drop on your fake girlfriend’s mother upon first meeting, but I couldn’t hold it back any longer. This is the reason I’m here right now, and while I’m playing the part of Bryce’s girlfriend, not a word I just spoke wasn’t true.
Regardless of what our relationship may be, Bryce is someone who’s important to me. And I’ll always take care of those who matter, even if they don’t quite know that yet.
When Claudine turns away from me and a reply doesn’t come, I leave the kitchen. She isn’t my priority right now.
Her daughter is, and I refuse to be another person in her life who lets her down when she needs them.
After what feels like ages, I step back into Bryce’s room with my arms full of items. Pill bottles, a new cool cloth, a bottle of water I stole from the mini fridge in the living room, and a bucket to rest beside the bed.
My hair is up messily on the top of my head to keep it out of my face, and I shrug out of my cardigan before draping it over the black velvet chair in the corner of the room.
It’s obvious that this is Bryce’s old room, even if her parents have scrubbed most of her out of it. Whether on purpose or purely just to turn the space into something impersonal for guests, they’ve stripped all of her personality from the décor.
After living with Bryce and snooping around in her room, I know what to expect from any space where she’s spent long periods of time. Dark vibes with some hidden pops of muted colour. Graphic artwork, loud patterns, and sleek furniture. She’s completely her own person with a unique style, and it feels like a loss to sit in here and see how bare it is.
Everything may reek like lavender, covering the spicy scent of Bryce’s perfume, but my gut tells me that this used to be her space. Even stripped of personality, they’ve left nail holes in the wall and the black furniture. Even the bedding is still dark. Not black, but a deep purple. The small collection of guitar picks in a glass dish on the long dresser draws my attention.
In a beat, I’m in front of the dresser, staring down at the collection. I dig through the different shapes and styles before pinching the smallest of them all, a bright yellow one.
“I thought she gave up guitar,” I whisper.
“I did.”
With a gasp, I have the guitar pick smushed to my chest and am whirling around. Bryce watches me from the bed, eyes cracked open just enough for the blue to appear amongst a whole lot of red. Her lips are nearly as pale as her face, and I abandon the guitar pick where I found it.
“How are you feeling?”
Her tired gaze tracks me across the room as I go to her side and perch on the edge of the bed.
“Like shit.”
“Here, sit up.” I reach for the items I left on the floor and grab all the pills she needs before cracking open the bottle of water and bringing it to her lips. “Take these and drink some water.”
“I don’t need all this,” she argues, brows furrowing even as she pushes up on the pillows as much as possible.
“You do. So shut up and take your medicine.”
Her lips part, eyes blowing wide. “You just told me to shut up.”
My lips twitch with the threat of a smile, but I keep firm. “I’ll do it again unless you listen.”
“I liked it.”
“You like hearing me tell you to shut up? ”
“I like your backbone, Daisy.”
I flush beneath the intensity of her lingering stare and opt out of replying to that.
Tapping her bottom lip, I hold out the first pill and then push it inside her mouth. The water is next, and I don’t let her stop drinking until she gently nudges the bottle away. By the time she’s taken all the medication, she’s collapsing back on the mattress with a groan.
“Get some more sleep, Bryce,” I say softly, pushing her hair back, unable to help not touching it again.
She struggles to keep her eyes open, fighting sleep. “Don’t go this time.”
“I won’t. I’ll be right here.”
“Lay down with me.”
Before I can argue against that, she spits a curse and rolls over, panting at the effort it took. I let my laugh fill the quiet room and adjust the blankets that she’s pulled beneath her body.
“I’ll get sick lying on your pillow.”
“If you do, I’ll take care of you.”
I pull my lip between my teeth and bite down on it. Bryce doesn’t look away from me, even as she lifts a weak hand and pats the empty spot beside her.
“Please,” she mumbles.
My resolve crumbles with that single word.
Knowing exactly well how bad of an idea this is, I climb in beside her and decide that I’ll deal with the consequences of this once everything goes back to normal.