CHAPTER 29
Nash
Bee glared at me, her eyes filled with murderous intent. She looked about ready to carve me up with her steak knife.
I’d messed up, and I realized it instantly.
It was foolish and reckless of me to assume Sybil was aware of the auction.
I’d spent the better part of the day figuring out the probabilities.
I thought she was feigning ignorance. I shouldn’t have listened to Bee’s insistence that Sybil had to know, being, you know, PERL and all.
I tore my gaze from Bee and reached a hand toward Sybil, hoping to dampen the explosion. “Sybil, are you okay?”
Undeniable shock was apparent on her blanching face as she coughed. I pushed water toward her, and she took a few sips. I squeezed her knee to offer comfort.
“Um, wow,” she went on, “sorry, I think I got a little pepper stuck in my throat.” She was fanning herself, trying to hide her shock behind this mask of choking.
“I… uh. I should tell my friend about it, you know, the one that’s always dragging me to the PERL shows.
” Sybil pulled out her phone, fingers tapping a flurry of texts.
Her recovered expression began to border on anger.
Guilt sank its claws deep into my chest. “You can bring your friend too, if you want,” I offered in a feeble attempt to help. Maybe if Catherine were there, she’d feel better and fix this.
Sybil’s eyes flew to mine. She set her phone face down. “No! No, she won’t…um… be available that night, I know that,” she fumbled.
If I weren’t so scared about what this meant for Sybil’s mental health, I’d find it cute how she was trying and failing to look unbothered. Her entire demeanor changed the minute I mentioned the PERL. It was further proof of her secret identity.
I glanced at Bee as we exchanged looks of companionable anxiety and understanding.
Sybil’s phone buzzed, and she swiped it up again, frowning at the screen. She ignored us, sending another flurry of desperate-looking texts. After a while, she set the phone back down, and a smile that didn’t touch her eyes stretched across her face. She was a terrible actress.
“It’ll be great.” She grabbed her fork, gripping it for dear life. I fretted for the steak’s future.
“You don’t have to go if you’re nervous,” Bee chimed in.
I nodded in desperate agreement. Seeing Sybil unravel before my eyes like this? I wanted to tell her we knew and understood. Should I, or would it only make things worse? I felt trapped, unable to protect her.
“No.” Sybil shook her head. “I said I’d go. I’m excited. I just... it hit me how nervous I am about it, that’s all. Delayed reaction.” That was a lie. No part of her suggested excitement. “It’s good for me, though. I need to do things like this.”
My heart squeezed in my chest. Standing, I did the only thing I could think to do and poured her a glass of whiskey from the bar cart. Setting it before her, she grabbed at it and took a large gulp. When it was empty, I dutifully poured her another.
“We’re going to help you, okay?” Bee pressed. “Anything you need, you have us. We can whisk you right out of there at any point, just say the word.”
Sybil nodded robotically.
I frowned.
We continued dinner, though Sybil sat there in a daze. I lost my appetite too, scared to death by the way Bee kept glaring at me. She was in full guardian mode, wanting to protect Sybil, and I was her target to blame. It was admirable, but terrifying.
After dinner, Bee and I cleared the table as Sybil continued texting on her phone.
“You fucking twat-waffle,” Bee whisper-screamed once we were out of earshot in the kitchen. She fake-stabbed me with a steak knife. I should have just let her do it. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
I dodged and shrugged. “I thought she already knew. You did too,” I pleaded.
Bee shoved dirty plates at me, and I added them to the dishwasher.
“Well, she knows now,” she shot back. “Asshole.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” I defended.
Bee grumbled. “For the love of cats, if you make her run, I’ll have Mr. Beans suffocate you in your sleep—and pee in your bed.”
I rolled my eyes. “She won’t run. You gave her an out, and she still insists on going with us, even if she knows it’s a much bigger deal than what she first agreed to.”
“Some therapist this Dr. Catherine is. Why didn’t she tell her?” she hissed. “She’s much more qualified to handle telling her this than we are.”
“Maybe she knew we’d say something? She knows what I do. It’s no secret Beaumont is hosting the auction.” I recalled our conversation at the hospital, she was hiding secrets then, too. “Catherine seems like a sneaky woman. She must be playing a game. I’m just not sure what that game is.”
“Well, you’d better go cheer her the fuck up. She’s our responsibility now if her therapist is going to be such a twat.” She took the rest of the dirty dishes from my hands, ushering me out of the kitchen like a scorned child.
I barely had a chance to wash and dry my hands. Sybil must have sensed me watching her as I stalked in her direction; her sullen gaze found mine from the table. Her whiskey glass was empty.
The look on her face alarmed me; she looked nothing like the girl I’d come home to earlier. She was pale, eyes now tired and drawn. Her arms were crossed tight against her chest as though to protect herself from the world.
I didn’t hesitate, lifting her out of her seat and into my arms like a sack of potatoes. She squealed. I figured it was the perfect way to snap her out of the melancholy.
We’d gotten so far in such a short time.
I didn’t want to see her backslide. Mom would do the same thing.
Whenever there was something on the calendar, a plan of any kind, she’d shut down.
This, for Sybil, would qualify as a pretty epic plan on her calendar, and she had very little time to come to terms with it.
It was important to me she have a good time at the auction, but not at this cost. I wanted to show her we were there for her. She was already dealing with so much. I wish I could talk to her, let her air her frustrations or fears about being PERL, but it had to be on her terms.
With Sybil in my arms, I bundled her against me. She was easy to carry, at least half of what I could bench in my basement gym every morning. I walked her toward the back of the house, past her room.
With a whistle, Bill was at my heels. I took her outside and walked down the porch steps, depositing her bare feet on the grass.
It was cold, a sharp change from inside, which I knew for a fact helped during a panic attack.
Second, I was grounding her with the earth, which, sure, was a little woo-woo, but my mother claimed it helped.
I dragged the Adirondack chair toward us and instructed her to sit before I moved around the garden, plucking as many flowers as I could find.
Some petals had wilted and looked worse for wear after the recent cold snap, but they would have to suffice.
Surrounding her with sensation was a good way to coax her back to the present.
Clutching a small bouquet, I returned to her, knelt, and presented it.
She held them, her expression lighting up, though a touch of nervousness lingered. I recognized that look on her face, the same look she’d had during my slip-up about the pink medium rare steak. She was nervous about the colors of the flowers, but I had that handled.
“What does this deep red one smell like?” I asked her, pulling a fluffy-looking one from her hands. I knew these flowers well; my mom loved and studied flowers, but I wanted to occupy her mind, so I let her tell me instead.
“That’s a Mum,” she said, smelling it, “and it’s very herbal. Rich smelling. Did you know it’s a natural bug repellent?”
I shook my head. “I did not know that. I will plant more, then.” Plucking another, a little cluster of white flowers, I presented it. “What about these white ones?”
She wrinkled her nose. “That’s Snakeroot. The leaves smell awful. Bugs are attracted to the flower, though.”
“Oh, lovely. Okay, throw those out. The goal is fewer bugs.” I tossed them over my shoulder.
Bill was walking the property line but sniffed the discarded flower, then chuffed out a sneeze. He didn’t like it either.
“Okay, what about these little purple ones?” My knee ached, so I sat on the grass instead.
She smelled it. “It’s an Aster. They smell like a citrus fruit, maybe even a little like a Christmas tree.”
I nodded. “You have a good nose.”
“I’d have made a good drug dog.” She smiled, looking more at ease again.
“Solid career choice—free snacks, allowed to attack assholes. Sounds nice.”
“Bite men’s balls off,” she quipped.
The door to the house opened and shut before I could come up with a funny retort, Bee’s steps descending the stairs. She was waving something over her head. “Look what came!” she squealed.
We both turned to look at her. The backyard was dimly lit; the sun was already down. I squinted at the object in her hand, hoping it wasn’t anything strange. Bee had a tendency to get strange when she felt awkward. Approaching, I cringed, seeing they were another pair of animal socks.
“I got Bill socks!”
Sybil looked confused. “You got socks for Bill?”
Bee landed in the grass beside me, breathing hard and smiling wide.
“No! Bill socks for you! See, look!” She pushed the proffered gift at Sybil, wiggling them.
The socks were black and white, with little Border Collies running across the ankles.
Bee offered her own foot forward, showing off her Mr. Beans socks.
“See!” She fell back a little, now off balance. I caught her.
Sybil grinned. “I love socks.” She pulled on the socks one at a time. “I collect them, or rather I did before I burned them all,” she joked. The girls then put their feet toe to toe on the grass. “I love them, Bee, thank you.”
“I love socks, too!” Bee replied. “See, another reason we’re ride-or-die friends.”
“I think Mr. Beans is your new ride-or-die, too. He sorta booted me to the curb,” Sybil added with a pout.
Bee plastered on a look of innocence. “I mean, he chose me. I can’t help it. I’m hot.”
“He’s such a whore,” Sybil said, unexpectedly.
Bee and I both laughed at that.
We lingered outside for a while before I carried Sybil upstairs to bed. My quads burned as we reached the bedroom, but I curled her up the same way I’d found her this afternoon.
Wrapping myself around her, I kissed her on the top of the head. Tonight I wanted to keep her safe, and show her I could be her rock. I hoped to God she’d still believe it once the entire truth surfaced.