Chapter 23
twenty-three
There’s nothing more depressing than a covered pool.
Leaves float on the wet tarp like scabs over old wounds, hiding whatever green, murky mess is festering underneath. Memories of happy, sunny times replaced by the smell of nature’s rot.
And it sits right in front of the grave where I buried my baby.
“But it’s heated,” I say, spearing a piece of stuffing and dragging it through the cranberry sauce like it’s blood. “I don’t understand why you started closing it.”
No one answers. Forks scrape plates, chairs creak, conversation hums without me. Wyatt elbows my arm on his way to another mound of mashed potatoes while Dad talks his ear off about some boxing match they saw last night.
On my left, Mom and my three sisters are a cackle chorus about wedding plans, dress fittings, and flower arrangements.
The brothers-in-law and boyfriends are deep in a separate debate about who could take down the biggest turkey.
Typical Thanksgiving holiday, where it’s easier to ignore Ashlyn than engage with her.
The worst part? Right across from me sits Talon.
Battered and bruised. With tape covering his busted nose.
He keeps staring at his phone under the table, which buzzes constantly with notifications.
Instead of looking worried, he smiles to himself like he’s got his own comedian in a palm-sized device.
My eyes twitch every time he looks down.
“Maybe I’ll use the hot tub,” I add to the table, mostly to myself. “Or I’ll have one of the staff open the front pools. Or I’ll do it.”
Still nothing. My fork clinks against porcelain.
“The turkey’s dry.”
That gets a pause.
“What?” Dad looks up mid-story.
“Nothing.”
Mom turns her attention on me like a searchlight. “Did you offer Talon one of the chef’s pies to take with him, Ashlyn?”
Talon grins with some faraway look.
“Not yet.” My eyebrows raise as I take a sip of wine that I wasn’t supposed to have.
Her mouth tightens. “Why don’t you two take it to his mother. I think she’d like that.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Donovan,” he says while stuffing another roll into his gaping mouth.
Adalyn waves a fork loaded with salad. “Are you guys going to his place next?”
“No,” I snap.
Mom’s eyes widen, but Talon didn’t even hear. His head is buried in his texts again, thumbs flying over the screen to send.
My oldest sister leans into her husband and mumbles just loud enough: “I don’t know why she insisted on going to that college when he was ready to propose.”
I scowl at her as Talon glances wide-eyed around the table, then to my father.
Dad jumps in like he’s defending me. “He and Ashlyn will seal the deal after school. Ain’t that right, firecracker?”
I shrink in my chair. “Mm.”
Talon reaches for my hand across the table, but I use the opportunity to pour more wine. “Yes, sir. That’s good timing. Maybe even sooner…”
“Ugh,” I mumble to myself.
Careful and prim, Mom interjects. “I think it’s a good thing she’ll have her degree.”
Dad doesn’t take the hint. “Right. But I don’t like her hanging around those pretty boys with the cash they didn’t earn.”
He slaps Talon’s shoulder, and the two yuck up with laughter for some joke that wasn’t funny.
I open my mouth to remind him about the mansion we live in. The casino. The “hard times” he likes to rewrite. But I’m named after his dead sister, so I shut it.
Instead, I load the bullet.
“I heard they’re outlawing abortions on campus,” I lie, loud enough to clear the air like a gunshot.
Forks stop. Eyes snap toward me. Jaws hang open for a beat before the side conversations fracture into whispers, then arguments. I finish my stuffing. Empty my drink. Slyly, I slip from my chair, wander down the hall, pour myself another full glass of wine in the kitchen, and head upstairs.
The noise fades behind me, replaced by the quiet of the landing. I sip, smiling into the rim. The grenade’s gone off. And I didn’t even have to stay for the mess.
Talon races up the steps two at a time and follows me to my room.
When I attempt to shut the door, he slips inside first.
“Not coming to my parents’ this year? What’s that about?” His question is laced with venom. A complete attitude change from the quiet guy downstairs, making friends with Dad.
“I don’t feel like it. Besides, your family doesn’t like me—”
“That’s not true. They love you as much as I do.”
Both lies.
As he wanders closer, his phone buzzes again, the screen lighting up with a photo…of what appears to be a naked woman. He taps the phone off and stuffs it into his pocket.
“Seriously?” I ask.
“What?” His hands spread wide at his sides. “Some of the guys are messing with me.”
“You know my dad won’t like you being up here with me.” I set the empty goblet on my dresser.
“Pfft, right. He loves me.” Talon approaches slowly, attempting to lace his arms around me. “And he can’t wait until we give them grandchildren.”
My shoulder shoves him back. “I want to be alone. Take a pie. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“What the fuck, fancy feet? First, you take me to a Theta bar night to get the shit beat out of me. Then you leave me there to barely escape with my life. And you didn’t even ask me over here for dinner. I had to guess what time and show up!”
“I’m a terrible girlfriend. You should get mad, leave, and listen to some screamo in your car about how psycho women are.” I flutter my hand in the air, flushing him away from me. “You know, not here.”
He groans. “You are such a fucking bitch sometimes.”
“Yes. I am.”
Narrowing his eyes, he spits out, “I guess I never stood a chance, huh? Not once.”
Crossing my arms, I muster up as casual a look as possible. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He hesitates, but his phone buzzes again. An unspoken menace between us. “Fine. I’ll come back tomorrow, then.”
As he turns to leave, checking out another nude pic sent to him, I whisper, “Please don’t.”
The holiday weekend drags like a hand wrapped around my throat, tightening with every hour. I spend most of it barricaded in my room, scrolling mindlessly, refreshing Aiden’s socials, checking for updates that never come.
No texts. No calls.
Nothing.
Is he finished with me?
Did I cross the line?
If so, it only proves what a liar he’s always been. The boy who swore I was his, no matter what. Who said it didn’t matter who we were with—that he’d come for me. Take me. We’d run away together.
It’s easy to promise forever when you know the clock will run out.
By Sunday night, the silence feels like a deep bruise. I fall asleep anyway.
Hands clamp around me. Tighten on my arms.
I’m thrashing, but my screams are swallowed against a gag. A blindfold seals me in darkness. I’m wrenched sideways, shoved forward, tossed like a dead weight in the hull of a ship during a storm.
Somewhere between fear and disbelief, I tell myself to wake up.
When I rip my eyes open, there’s nothing but black. My wrists are bound in front of me. I’m thrown into what feels like a hard box. The sound of metal slams overhead. Then the hum of an engine below me. Steady, growling, carrying me away.
I’m being kidnapped.
Every sway of the tires pitches me into another half-sleep. Another wave of unconsciousness drags me under until I stop fighting.
Maybe it’s good to die young.