TWENTY-FIVE #2
She shakes her head immediately. “No. Let’s rebook it.” Her voice drifts weakly. “It’s hard to maintain. Short hair is easier. Otherwise I’ll just… forget.”
My chest caves inward. Because I know what she’s really saying. Cece’s entire life has been built around presentation. Around poise. Around keeping herself composed and immaculate with as little visible effort as possible.
The Wentworth version of perfection. The Astor’s version of imposition.
And now, that effort is also slipping through her fingers. I don’t want to read too deeply into it, or at least show her my unwavering examination. But I can’t ignore it anymore either. I’m certain now.
She’s in a depressive episode.
“Okay,” I say softly, brushing my thumb against her jaw. “I’ll book it for you.”
“Okay,” she mumbles quietly, almost reluctantly.
Okay.
Rebook it.
Longer.
Her choice of words isn’t going unnoticed. She’s repeating a lot of what I’m saying instead of putting effort into forming the words she clearly wants to say.
Because even that feels exhausting to her.
God, it hurts to see her this lost.
Like she’s clawing her way through something invisible—either trying desperately to stay afloat or slowly letting herself sink beneath it.
But the one thing that settles inside me with terrifying clarity is the thing I’m most afraid to voice.
That she won’t go through it alone.
I don’t care if this version of Cece feels unfamiliar sometimes. I don’t care if she’s quieter. Sadder. Harder to reach.
She’s still Cece.
My Cece.
??????
Her smile.
Jesus Christ. It’s her real smile.
I’m absolutely not the cause of it, and that’s okay. It’s her surprise that has her nearly beaming. But it’s still short of a full grin I know she’s capable of.
Regardless, I’m glad Vivienne is able to pull it out of her. A version of it, at least.
Vi is her surprise.
She flew in this morning from Kingston. There were so many moments she had messaged me these past few weeks, asking whether she could help be there for Cece. Especially after the clause leaked—along with that incriminating picture.
Apparently, Cece had stopped replying to her messages. Or had given her sister one-word responses that Vi was familiar with, and didn’t hold against her.
But now that the arrests have been made, and Vi’s courses have a rare lull, she’s here. Doing everything to make my Cece smile even a little bit.
This kid is my star.
“Is she doing better?” Mrs. Wentworth grabs my attention, pulling me from an almost blatant perusal of my fiancée.
“She’s… struggling, Mrs. Wentworth,” I tell her, leaning back into the couch of this massive living room.
Despite the opulence of this estate, it’s still homely. Very unlike the Astor estate. But then again, the Wentworths are a new player in the game of multi-millionaires, having gained their place only two decades ago.
“Are you really getting rid of that clause?” she asks, her voice low enough not to reach anyone but me.
I simply nod, my gaze still locked on Cece. She’s listening intently to whatever Vi is saying. Narrating the chaos of her uni-days in that colorful way she always does.
Eloise Wentworth has never asked after Cece. Not in the time I’ve known her. Which is why the shift to the clause is entirely predictable.
It’s not that she doesn’t love Cece. I’m assuming she does, as well as anyone in her position and power would.
She sighs heavily beside me, taking a sip of her pre-supper wine.
“Well, at least she made it tonight,” she says. “I was afraid she wouldn’t, even though I gave her short notice.”
My brows furrow at her words. I have no idea what she means.
And just as I’m about to dissect her carefully crafted sentence, she continues. “Take my advice, Levi. When she gets like this, and you want her to attend something important, give her a day’s notice. Or maybe less than a week. That way, she isn’t in over her head about it.”
What the fuck?
My mind immediately flashes back to that conversation. Cece told me about her parents’ anniversary only a week before it happened.
A week.
What kind of parents tell their daughter about an important family event with barely any notice?
A strange discomfort prickles beneath my skin. Because suddenly I can’t stop wondering how many details about Cece’s life I completely missed while convincing myself I knew her better than anyone.
Before I can ask another question, her mother rises from the couch and pats my shoulder gently. “I should check on dinner,” she says softly, disappearing toward a kitchen I’m almost certain she never actually cooks in. At least, not herself.
The second she leaves, the questions inside my head become unbearable. I excuse myself and head toward the guest bathroom.
I’m not drinking tonight since I’m driving us home. But what I wouldn’t do to get a glass of whiskey right now. Just one glass. One burn down my throat to quiet the noise in my head.
Are the Wentworths really like the Astors? Maybe I’m unfairly lumping them together because of my own parents?
Or am I only noticing these things now because I’m desperately searching for explanations behind Cece’s unraveling?
I brace my hands against the marble sink and stare at my reflection for a long moment. And all I see is a man slowly realizing he may have failed the person he claims to love—in more ways than he can count.
A few minutes later, I head back toward the living room.
The atmosphere has changed completely.
Earlier, Vi’s voice filled the room brightly. Easy and animated. Now a softer, measured cadence has taken over.
I can’t hear what she’s saying from here, but I can see the effect of it all over Cece’s face. That agonizing restraint. Like she’s fighting herself not to let too much emotion show.
And that’s when it happens.
My entire body locks up, fingers growing cold as my gaze catches on one tiny movement that feels horrifyingly familiar.
Cece lifts a trembling hand and lightly pinches the hem of Vi’s t-shirt between her fingers. The gesture is so small that most people would never notice it.
But, God, I do.
Before I can fully process it, Vi immediately covers Cece’s hand with hers and pulls her into a tight hug. Cece folds into her instantly.
Not the hesitant, exhausted half-embrace she’s been giving me for days.
No. She clings to Vi like she’s anchoring herself to something solid.
And suddenly, I can’t breathe.
Because that tiny tug—that small pull of fabric—feels familiar in a way that nearly knocks the air out of me. It feels like a signal I’ve experienced. A signal she designed for herself to get a hug when words wouldn’t come.
A memory from before wrecks my entire nervous system.
‘…my therapist says I also have an avoidant attachment style. It makes certain relationship things… complicated for me.’
This wasn’t complicated. This was forged into our relationship. I know it. Because I can feel a phantom pull of the fabric of whatever I’m wearing. My mind is unraveling rapidly, dragging memory after memory to the surface.
A light pull on the cuff of my sleeve.
The hem of my shirt.
The waistband of my sweatpants.
My suit jacket.
Oh God. My suit jacket.
My stomach drops violently.
That night, when Cece froze inside herself while I stood there, too angry, too blind, too consumed with my own hurt to see what was happening right in front of me. When her sensory overload had her sobbing in my arms for a fraction of a second before she shoved me out the door.
I felt it then. I remember feeling it.
Did I hug her then?
Fuck, I don’t think I did.
But more than the ghost of that tug, I’m now sinking beneath the realization that she has stopped doing it. Or at least she doesn’t expect it from me. Why would she?
That night, when I failed to respond to it, was probably the last time she ever trusted me with it. Somewhere along the way, I unknowingly taught her it wasn’t safe to use it with me anymore.
The realization tears through me so brutally that I nearly stagger. My chest caves inward as I watch her hold onto her sister like it’s instinctive. Like Vi answered a language I failed to remember or even learn.
And all I can think is that the last time Cece reached for me like that…
I left her completely alone.
??????
[*] Novick DM, Swartz HA, Frank E. Suicide attempts in bipolar I and bipolar II disorder: a review and meta-analysis of the evidence. Bipolar Disord 2010: 12: 1–9. ? 2010 The Authors. Journal compilation ? 2010 John Wiley & Sons A/S.