Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Carter
Well, it’s done. And that is pretty much the best thing I can think to say about the spectacle that’s been unfolding around me all day.
That, and Dad looks beyond happy. I’m glad for him. I only hope she doesn’t make him regret it.
It’s exhausting, putting on a happy face for hours on end. I’m pretty sure my facial muscles are going to cramp by the time the night is over. I figure this is the least I can do for Dad—when he looks through pictures later, he’ll see photographic evidence that I did my best to play along today. He’ll know I did it for his sake.
“Champagne?” I can barely hear the voice of the server over the music, threatening to split my head open. The theme for the night was obviously ’80s and ’90s, as loud as possible. I’m pretty sure that had to be the only instruction Irene gave the DJ. It wouldn’t even be bad if it wasn’t so fucking loud—and this is me, somebody whose closest neighbor once recorded the music I was listening to while they were out of the house, which was audible at a distance even with every window closed. If I think it’s too loud, there’s a problem.
I’m glad to take the flute from the tray before the girl walks past, though I could go for something stronger. That’s another favor I’m doing for Dad tonight: taking it easy with the drinking since I’m not exactly of legal age. It would look kind of shitty for the underage son of the town’s police chief to stumble around drunkenly, but champagne is celebratory. I’m just enjoying the festivities.
Sipping the bubbly, I make a slow tour of the ballroom, wondering how long I have to stick around. I’m trying to be polite. I’m trying to play along, but it’s been a long day. I would be exhausted enough without adding on the weight of pretending to be happy. Dad is out on the dance floor, bowtie loose and hanging around his neck, doing what I guess he considers dancing—but it looks like something out of an old monster movie. He wouldn’t notice if I was gone. He’s too busy having fun.
“Frankenstein.”
Hearing the name makes me turn my head, confused, looking for the source. A certain maid of honor in a floor-length, lilac-purple dress lifts her champagne flute in my direction, then gestures toward the dance floor with it. “That’s who he reminds me of when he dances.”
Elliana would be so pretty if she let herself be soft like this all the time. Somebody arranged her hair, so instead of it hanging limp around her shoulders and face, it’s gently curled and shining. Whoever did her makeup made her eyes pop—her glossy lips curve in a wry smirk as she lifts the champagne flute to them. “But it’s embarrassing the hell out of Mom, so I hope he never stops.”
“How much of that have you had?” Because she’s more open right now than she’s ever been. Like her walls have come down. I doubt that all has to do with what happened last night. If anything, she was giving me the cold shoulder today as we were forced to pose for photos together. I’ve had weeks of practice. It didn’t come as a big surprise.
Clearly, she’s in the same place I am right now: a little tipsy and too damn tired to care. Instead of answering my question, she heaves a sigh while looking over the lavishly decorated room. “Do you think there’s a flower left in town?” she asks. “I hope nobody else is expecting to find any this weekend.”
The thought of flowers reminds me of something. “Are you going to go out there and try to catch the bouquet later?”
She rolls her eyes, scoffing. “Are you kidding? Even if I wanted to, Mom would probably tell me not to waste my time.” Her voice shakes a little before she looks away.
I remember clearly everything Irene said to her last night. I think I would rather have no mother at all than a mother who would make me feel that small and worthless.
I don’t know why, but there’s something in me that wants to make her feel better. It has to be the champagne, or the exhaustion. “You look nice today.”
“Oh. Thank you. I hate this dress,” she mumbles, picking at the light, gauzy fabric. Yeah, I guess she would hate it. It’s sleeveless, low cut enough in the front to show cleavage. Everything she always tries to avoid.
“You look nicer than a lot of the women here.” I plop down into the chair next to hers, glad to get off my feet in a pair of dress shoes I didn’t remember to break in before today. I thought only women were supposed to complain about aching feet at events like this.
Gesturing with my flute, I lean a little closer to her so she can hear me. “Look at those cougars over there on the dance floor. Friends of your mom’s?”
She giggles, shaking her head. “Mom wishes. They’re wives of some of your dad’s friends.”
“Yeah, I guess I didn’t recognize them with all that makeup. Did they use a putty knife to put it on?” She laughs, and I laugh, and we watch the trio of women dancing around with their shoes in their hands, shaking their asses.
“So I look better than a bunch of middle-aged women. I don’t know if that’s really a compliment.” But her eyes are shining when they meet mine, and there’s a heartbeat when we’re just two people sitting together at a wedding—the most normal thing in the world.
But her smile fades quickly, replaced with a frown. “I know what you think of her. I mean, it’s not like you try to make it a secret or anything. And I’m not trying to start shit,” she adds when I lean back in the chair with a sigh. “I understand how you feel. I would feel the same way. This whole thing makes my skin crawl.”
Well, son of a bitch. So this is what it takes to turn her into a regular person and not some always-spooked robot who scurries through life like a timid little mouse. “What, because I have to be your stepbrother?”
“Do you want an honest answer to that?” But she’s grinning as she shrugs. “I mean, you haven’t exactly made it easy. But it’s just all so… obvious. Painfully obvious. She doesn’t know how trashy she makes herself look, how embarrassing she is. And I hate…” All of a sudden, her bottom lip almost disappears under her teeth before her head snaps back around, avoiding my gaze.
But it’s too late for that. “What? Go ahead,” I prompt. I never would’ve expected being able to relate to her—and now that it seems like I can, I want to know more.
Looking at me from the corner of her eye, I can sense her sizing me up. Wondering about my motive. Can she trust me? Can I blame her for wondering that? “I hate thinking people might, you know, lump me in with her. I hate that they would figure we’re the same kind of person because nothing could be further from the truth.” Then she tosses back the rest of her champagne all at once.
“Careful,” I warn her, laughing. “All that sugar. You’re gonna have a hell of a hangover.”
“Whatever. I don’t have any plans tomorrow.” She has definitely loosened up, and I can’t pretend I don’t like what I’m seeing. There’s something so tempting about her right now. It’s more than the memory of being inside her last night, that barrier between us demolished. It’s more than a feeling of possessiveness or ownership or anything like that. Feeling free and easy, she’s somebody I wouldn’t mind spending more time with.
“When do you think we can get out of here?” When it sounds like she’s going to choke on her tongue, I add, “I’ve been dying to go ever since we finished dinner. I mean, unless you feel like hanging around here and watching your mom start a conga line or some weird shit.”
“I think usually people wait until the cake is cut.” She eyes the monstrous six-tier cake on the other side of the room, chewing her lip again.
“Do you really think anybody would care if we missed that?” Standing, I button my tuxedo jacket and look down at her expectantly. “I’m going to go with or without you. We’ve had about enough of pretending for one night.”
She’s torn—until she isn’t. “Fine. I’ll go with you. I can always say I had a headache or something.”
“See? We’re getting along like siblings are supposed to. Our parents will be so proud.” I can’t help but laugh when she rolls her eyes. I think the champagne is affecting both of us, but it’s not a bad thing. For the first time in a long time, it feels like I have an ally.
Even if that ally comes from the last place I would ever expect.
It doesn’t take long to get an Uber—we rode in the limousine straight from the house, meaning there’s no car for me to drive home. The party is still raging by the time our car rolls up, and the drunken shouts still audible behind us make me glad we decided to cut out early. The drunker everyone gets, the more insufferable it’s all going to become.
There’s something almost nice about riding home with her, comparing notes on the day. In her lap, she holds a small purse and a bouquet of ribbon-wrapped peonies and roses. She’s smiling, obviously relieved to be out of the spotlight, away from people asking all kinds of rude questions about how life has changed and what it’s like fitting into a new family. A few of them must have recognized her from around town since they made a big deal of commenting on how much nicer she looks today, how they didn’t know she was so pretty. I mean, not that I disagree, but I at least have a little tact.
By the time we get home, there’s only one thing on my mind. The night air is humid, and I’ve been in this fucking tuxedo all day. “I’m gonna go for a swim,” I announce once we’re in the house, going straight for the kitchen and the doors leading out back. “Come with me.”
“I’m not going to swim.”
I stop at the firm, no-nonsense sound of her voice and turn on my heel while taking off my jacket. She’s standing at the foot of the stairs, one hand gripping the banister while she stares at me. Her eyes don’t look quite as wide as they do when she’s wearing her glasses, but they’re close.
“I’ll be a good boy, I promise.” I even hold up my right hand before using it to undo my bowtie. “Come on. Don’t make me swim alone.”
“I’m not swimming. But I’ll come out with you.” She pauses to take off her heeled sandals, then follows me while I shed one piece of clothing after another. My shirt ends up slung over the back of a kitchen chair before I step outside, where right away I undo my belt and kick off my shoes.
“I still don’t know why you won’t. What, are you afraid I’ll drown you or something?” I pause and look over my shoulder, laughing—because it was a joke—just in time to watch her face fall, then harden.
“I’m only kidding,” I mutter, but she doesn’t react right away. Instead of looking at me, acknowledging me, she stares at the pool, sitting in the first chair she comes to.
“I don’t swim, okay? I just don’t.” Her shoulders are starting to rise. She’s about to go back into hiding, and I can’t believe how much I want to stop her from doing it. Is it too much to ask that we have a single night where she doesn’t act like I’m the Grim Reaper?
“What, you just never learned how? It’s easy. And probably safer if you do learn,” I add as I drop my pants, letting them puddle at my feet before stepping out and taking off my socks. She hasn’t moved by the time I’m down to my boxer briefs, which I wait to take off. She’s got my interest. I don’t know why, but something is compelling me to understand her. Maybe it’s the champagne, maybe it’s that little flicker of camaraderie we shared at the reception. For whatever reason, I stop what I’m doing to watch her, to wait for an explanation.
“I can swim. I just don’t want to. I had… an incident a few years ago. In high school,” she murmurs, grabbing one arm with the other hand and ducking her head a little. “I don’t know why I thought it would be okay for me to go to a party when I’d never gone to one before. Mom kind of pushed me into it, which I’m sure does not come as a surprise.”
She’s right. It doesn’t. I keep my thoughts to myself, since it seems like she’s on a roll.
She’s staring at the water, and the lights from the pool dance over her face with every ripple on the surface. Leaning forward, she wraps her arms around her knees. “I was minding my own business. I wasn’t trying to talk to anybody. I wasn’t trying to show off. I just wanted to be there. For once. I wanted to be a part of something. But that was too much to ask.”
Her laughter is sharp, bitter. “I was sitting in a chair, kind of like this one, drinking a soda. I was still dressed. I felt uncomfortable, but I told myself to deal with it. I couldn’t just spend my whole life ignoring things that made me uncomfortable. That was what Mom always said to me, you know? I figured she was right, so I forced myself to sit there. Just to sit. Not to make conversation or flirt with any of the guys. I wouldn’t have known where to start.” Her gaze drops to the patio at her feet.
“What happened?” I ask, going to her, lowering myself into a chair next to her. Watching every move she makes, every twitch of her face.
She presses her lips together so tight they disappear while a shudder runs over her. “Two guys got a hold of me, one on each arm. And they were laughing, and everybody was cheering, and I didn’t know what was happening until they pulled me to the edge of the pool. I still thought they were joking because, you know, everybody was laughing and clapping. I almost started to laugh too—that’s the saddest part. I started to laugh because I honestly thought stupidly that we were all having fun together. I’m so ashamed of how stupid I was.”
She lifts a shoulder, then mumbles, “Then I realized they were going to throw me into the deep end. I started asking for them to stop, please stop, but they weren’t listening. They just… threw me in.”
“Fuck,” I mutter.
“And then there were these girls who were already in the water.” Now she’s talking faster, with an edge in her voice as anger leaks in and colors the story. “And I reached for one of them because I was panicking. My clothes were pulling me down, and I was trying to hold onto something to keep me floating, but all she did was shove me down. They took turns pushing me under the water. When I tried to get to the edge, they wouldn’t let me.” Her voice cracks before she shudders again.
“I still hear all of it so clearly in my head. And I was splashing and gulping water and then I went under again…”
Her eyes close and a single tear trickles down her cheek, sparkling like a jewel in the light dancing across her face. “And I was so sure I was going to die. I kept reaching out for help, and they kept shoving me, pushing me back under. I was so sure I was dying. And they didn’t care. An adult finally showed up and told them to stop playing around. Finally, they let me swim to the edge, and I pulled myself out. And you know what? They sounded disappointed. They really, honestly did.”
“Sick fucks,” I grunt in disgust.
I didn’t expect her head to snap around the way it does or for her eyes to blaze as brightly as they do. “Really? Are they? Because it seems like no matter where I go, no matter what I do, I end up being the butt of somebody’s joke. Somebody decides they’re going to make my life miserable just because I exist. Does that sound familiar?”
I don’t know what’s harder to believe: the way she was so quick to turn things around on me, or the fire in her voice. I’ve always known that fire had to exist in her. I’ve seen flashes of it before. But now it’s blazing, and it’s directed at me.
“I had my reasons.” And I still do, don’t I? Nothing has changed, really. Right?
“Everybody always thinks they’ve got their reasons. I never did anything to you to deserve the way you’ve treated me. And I’m not going to sit here now and listen to you justify yourself.”
She’s out of the chair and on her feet before I can say a word. “Wait,” I blurt out, getting up and reaching for her. She tries to yank herself out of my grasp, but she should know better by now. I don’t give up that easily.
“Let go of me,” she growls, and I guess I’m supposed to be intimidated, but all it does is make me more determined to pull her in close. To smell her hair. To feel her tremble against me, the way she does when I wrap an arm around her waist to hold her in place. “Do you have a problem understanding English? I said to let me go.”
I don’t do anything unless I want to, and I don’t want to let her go. I would rather test the softness of her hair, the smoothness of her cheek. Her heart is fluttering like crazy, her pulse pounding in her throat when my fingers trail over her skin.
I’m looking at her, but all I can see is a girl getting pushed under the water, panicking, thinking she’s going to die. Right now, I would kill every last one of them while she watches, just to show her not everybody’s like that. Whoever the fuck they are, they don’t deserve to live.
Something stirs deep in me. I slide a finger under her chin, tipping her head back and holding it there so I can claim her mouth. She goes stiff at first, but that’s no surprise. I part her lips with my tongue and kiss her slowly, deeply, taking the time to indulge in her like I never have. She’s been through so much. I’ve added to it. Maybe this kiss is an apology. Maybe it’s my way of telling her I see her, all of her, when I can’t find the words.
With a soft sigh, she melts against me, her hands moving over my bare chest, sparking a fire that covers me in a heated flush. A low growl stirs in my throat, and she shivers as the kiss deepens, both of us breathing faster, something deep and needful urging me on. I don’t know what I’m doing. I only know I have to. It feels right—that’s the craziest part of all. I’m not doing it to embarrass her or control her. I’m doing it because I want to.
And she wants it, too, nails digging into my shoulders, her breathing quick and desperate. Her body is alive in my arms, moving against me, my hands gliding over the fabric of her dress and teasing the curves underneath. Fuck, she is so much more than she seemed, and I’m hungry to learn every inch of her. What else is hiding, waiting to be discovered?
I can’t help taking hold of her ass and gripping it, pulling her against my cock.
Which is exactly when she freaks, going stiff. The hands that were just clutching my shoulders like I was all she wanted now loosen, so she can press them against my chest like she wants to push me away. “No,” she mumbles, turning her face away from mine. “No. This isn’t happening.”
“Why the fuck not?” I ask while she shoves hard enough to catch me off guard and make me stumble backward. That’s her opportunity, and she takes it, breaking away from me, running into the house with her dress bunched up in her hands.
“Wait! Would you wait?” This isn’t me. I don’t chase women. They chase me—all I ever have to do is decide which one I’ll let catch me for a little while before I get bored. So why am I running through my house, just a little too slow to catch her?
She only speaks once, when she reaches the top of the stairs. “Just leave me alone, please!” I reach her bedroom in time to hear the lock click, closing her off from me.
I wish I knew why I can’t get her to give me a chance. To trust me a little.
I wish I knew why it matters so much.