Seven Sons
Dolly Beckett
I’m so stupid. I can’t believe I let myself go with Preston, let myself get lost in the fantasy he laid out before me like everything I’ve ever wanted.
I should have known it was too good to be true.
That he couldn’t give me what he did with no strings attached—a connection, friendship that isn’t built on competition and sabotage, orgasms that defy the laws of reality.
Even though I knew better, I let my guard down because it’s Preston, the boy I’ve known all my life.
Our shared history makes us understand each other in a way no one outside Faulkner can.
Every memory of my childhood is painted in shades of Darling gold, just like this town.
But Preston showed me who he really was last night, who he’s been all along, even when I didn’t know it.
This time, I did know it, and I still gave him the benefit of the doubt.
Like he once said, I see the best in people.
What he didn’t say was that I often pay a price for that.
I should have kept my guard up when he showed up at my place in LA, despite fifteen years of friendship that made me think that maybe he felt bad for what he did before, that maybe he’d learned his lesson and wouldn’t dare make a mistake that would cost him my trust again.
But anything Preston Darling can offer is a lie, just like my “friends” in California who would sell me out to a tabloid if I ever become famous enough to get them a chunk of cash for the story.
At least those girls make no secret of their self-serving intentions.
After two years of that, though, it was such a relief to be with someone who truly knows me, someone who wants me just as I am.
He doesn’t need me to go on a diet or land a role in a movie.
He just wants me. It was intoxicating after years of being told I’m a little too big, a little too tall, a little too Southern, a little too girly.
For them, I went on diets, wore flats, trained with a voice coach to tame my twang, and stopped wearing pink. But I was still never quite what they were looking for.
I was always what Preston was looking for.
It’s not just that, though. He may love the way I look—and god, did his flattery over the past week work wonders on my now-shaky self-esteem—but he sees deeper than that.
Maybe that’s what drew me to him to begin with.
He’s the only person who looks past appearances and sees me for who I truly am.
My looks may not be the burden that his are to him, but they hide me just as well.
“I have to stop and check on my grandfather,” he says, breaking the silence at last. We pull off the highway on the exit for Faulkner.
“Can you please take me home first?” I ask, keeping my words polite, as if he’s a rideshare driver and not the man who made me climax so hard I forgot he was a snake in disguise.
“No,” he says, glancing at me. “Sorry, Doll. Grampa’s elderly now. He’s not doing so well, and he’s been alone with a couple teenagers for three weeks.”
“Doesn’t he have a nurse?”
“Sure,” Preston says. “But I’m his grandson, and I left him there with two delinquents-in-training. You never know what Sully’ll get it in his head nowadays.”
“Sullivan came home?” I ask, a pang of regret piercing into me at the sight of my hometown, the reminder of how much I’ve missed.
“Sure did,” Preston drawls, turning onto the road that winds along the northern edge of Faulkner, toward the neighborhood where Devlin used to live. “I told you, Doll. It’s over. It’s time to rebuild.”
“Rebuild the town your family already built?”
“That’s right,” he says. “The one that turned their back on us and ostracized us for the past two years because Tony Dolce told them to.”
“You sound a little bitter about that,” I say carefully.
He snorts. “I’m more worried about Gramps right now. Between Sully and Maggie… The rest of us have money on which one of them is going to pull the plug on the old guy.”
Imagining Magnolia Darling as a murderer almost makes me laugh. Almost.
Last time I saw her, she was a headstrong eleven-year-old with blonde ringlets who looked like an angel but snuck spiked eggnog at the Darling holiday party and doused the yule log with puke.
If the Dolces hadn’t destroyed their family, it’s probably a story people would recount with laughter, even though it was disgusting at the time. I doubt they laugh about much anymore.
Preston pulls his Escalade truck up to the gate, where he has to do a retinal scan before entering.
The tall, ornate, wrought iron gate swings open in the gathering twilight, and a few dead leaves tumble across the narrow, asphalt drive.
A cold gust of wind billows through his open window, and an eerie shiver creeps up my spine.
It reminds me too much of every scene in a scary movie where people go through a creepy old gate.
There’s always something evil waiting—an insane asylum, a boarding school with evil staff, or a haunted mansion.
I push away the silly thoughts. Grampa Darling is still alive, and I’ve been here hundreds of times.
Preston pulls around the back of the estate, which consists of a huge house, a mother-in-law suite that’s the size of a normal house but matches the main building, another guest cottage, and a twelve-car garage where the Darling family patriarch keeps his collection of luxury vehicles.
I remember parking on the gravel in front of these doors right before I went to the treehouse to lose my virginity.
Instead of calming my unease with nostalgia, I only feel more unsettled knowing that memory is a lie, a reminder of Preston’s unforgiveable betrayal.
The sight of the familiar cars gleaming in the overhead light calms my erratic heartbeat, though.
That was one night, and I’ve been here hundreds.
I’m just getting weird vibes because of the new, high-tech security.
I thought retina scans only happened in movies.
And probably because the last time I was in the house itself was the New Year’s Eve when the fuse was lit on the bomb that would destroy the town as we knew it.
Instead of Mrs. Darling’s little red Miata, a vintage, Model T sits in the spot next to the end, where Preston pulls in.
“You’re rebuilding cars?” I ask, a funny twist going through me when I remember how much Devlin loved doing that with his dad.
It’s odd to know he’s alive after three years of thinking he was dead.
I don’t know how to process the information Preston gave me.
I wasn’t in love with Devlin anymore by the time he disappeared, but it was still devastating.
It left the whole town reeling, and I was no exception.
If anything, I had more complicated shit to work out because I’d loved him, dumped him, resented him, and been friends with the girl who disappeared with him.
“Yeah,” Preston says, gesturing to the cute little burgundy car. “That’s the 1927 Roadster. I actually built it with Uncle Justin and drove it down here when we finished. Devlin’s going to shit himself when he sees it.”
“Or be pissed that you took over his hobby with his dad,” I say, though I know that’s not true. He’ll know how much his dad missed him, that he was honoring his memory by continuing with Preston.
“I have to write down the miles so the delinquents know they can’t take it out joyriding and wreck it,” Preston says. “Since Grampa insists on keeping the keys on the wall, even though I told him we can get spares if he loses them.”
“Look at you, all grown up and spoiling the kids’ fun,” I say with a smile, unable to keep freezing him out despite what he did. I’ve known this man my entire life. I know he’s not a bad person.
“You can stay in the truck if you want,” Preston offers before climbing out. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say with a sigh. “I need to stretch my legs and visit the ladies’ room, anyway.”
My Southern manners won’t let me sit out here and not pay my respects to his family.
The last time I saw Grampa Darling, he was as robust as ever, even though he must be pushing seventy.
He always said it took a strong man to produce seven sons, and he seemed determined to prove it by staying active both physically and in the community.
I guess the Dolces ended his community involvement, but still, he wasn’t elderly or feeble in any way last time I saw him.
I hate to think of him being bedridden, but I’m too polite to ask Preston what ails him.
“Come on, then,” Preston says, heading for the door.
We enter the Darling manor from the back, and the familiar smell of floor wax and furniture polish and old houses invades my nostrils, bringing me back to all the summer days spent here as a kid.
Still, the earlier shiver returns at the dark, hulking presence looming around us, as if the house’s emptiness is a living entity—or the ghost of one.
I can almost hear the echoes of children’s footsteps and laughter, a chilling reminder of all that’s lost. Where once the house was bright and alive with activity, it sits silent now except for the cold, damp wind gusting in before Preston shuts the door.
No kids run in and out for popsicles and glasses of sweet tea, no moms scold us about toweling off before coming in even though we were going right back to the pool after dripping water down the hall as we raced on bare feet to retrieve our snacks and return before we missed anything.
“Bathroom,” Preston reminds me, pointing to the guest bathroom in the back hall.
I step inside, closing the door behind me.
Meeting my reflection’s gaze in the mirror, I take a deep breath and try to settle the uneasy feeling of being back here in this place that’s haunted with a thousand memories that feel like they belong to someone else.
Instead of the old black-and-white checkerboard tiles of my childhood, the floor is covered in delicate white tiles with pale pink trim.
It reminds me of the Homecoming afterparty we didn’t have here because the bathroom was being remodeled.
I push away those memories and bring my attention to the reason I’m in town—my father. I need to call and tell him I’m here, since I thought it would be a nice surprise for him after the stress he’s been through.
I don’t even know the half of what’s happened since I left the summer after graduation.
When I asked Dad, he said he always chose the winning team, and that this time, Tony Dolce was the winner.
History is written by the victors, and that’s the lens I’ve seen the town through every time I came home.
I haven’t seen this side of it. I saw the good, just like I do with people.
After using the facilities and freshening up, I leave the bathroom and find Preston standing right outside.
Our footsteps echo along the empty hall and into the huge foyer where two sets of wide, curved staircases lead to the second floor.
He starts up the stairs to the east wing of the mansion.
A tendril of dread winds through my belly.
Slowly, I start up after him, unease gnawing at my nerves.
I don’t know why Grampa Darling would be in the east wing, but then, maybe they’ve converted things.
The Dolces did shatter all the windows on this side of the house that night.
Maybe in his old age he wants to sit at the huge wall of windows and look out over his garden.
He’s certainly not participating in the kind of thing that used to happen up here.
Preston crosses the landing, lit only by a small inset bulb at floor level, and opens the double doors.
The room is dark, but I can make out the rest of the estate outside through the wall of windows stretching along the huge entrance room.
Faint moonlight glimmers on the pool, the lazy river and closed hot tub, and beyond that, the catfish pond where we fished as kids.
Preston holds the door for me, his hand brushing my lower back as he guides me in. My skin prickles with heat when he steps in close to me, his body a breath away from mine. I close my eyes, willing myself to move away from him, not to let his touch seduce me one more time.
He presses his lips softly to the back of my neck.
“I’m sorry,” he says against my skin, his warm breath tickling the fine hairs there.
The next second, the warmth of his body disappears from mine. I spin just in time to see the double doors close behind him.
“Preston,” I say, my voice rising in alarm.
The sound of the double doors latching makes my blood go cold, and goosebumps explode across my skin.
I step toward them, but before I can grab the knob, a quiet click echoes through the room.
It’s as soft as a gun being cocked, but it echoes as loudly as a shot fired in the empty room.
My heart stops.
I’m trapped.