XXXIV
Tori
E xhaustion seems to have seeped into every cell in my body. More than anything, I want a shower, but as I don’t want to wake Syn, I have to satisfy myself with a quick clean at the sink before I dress and gather my few things into my bags. Despite Syn saying he bought all the clothes in this room for me, I have no desire to take them with me.
My gaze drops to the jewelry on my hands and wrists. I hope Mr. Keyingham keeps his word and helps release my brother, but even if I don’t have to pay a lawyer, having some money for my mom, Cole, and me to start over would be useful.
The watch and tennis bracelet will fetch a nice amount of money. The engagement ring would too... but the way Syn was looking at it last night tells me that leaving with it, even if I sell it, would be more significant to him than it should be.
Other than tired, I don’t know what I feel. Last night caught me off guard, and while I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to, I’m not sure what Syn’s motives were.
For the first time, I think his apology was sincere. I’m grateful I managed to hear it, and I accept it. But I’m not ready to forgive yet... if I ever can.
I need time.
I need distance.
I need to get out of here.
Carefully, I pull open one of the drawers on the other side of the room. I found the notepad and pen in there when I was snooping around the room the first night I got here.
There’s a lot I want to say, but I know Syn. If he wakes up before I leave, he’ll make leaving harder. I also know he’ll choose to interpret my words how he wants unless I make it brutally clear.
Behind me, he sighs in his sleep, drawing my attention to him. Asleep, he looks like an angel. But the devil was also an angel before he fell.
Just like that, I remember everything I’ve been through to get to where I am now. With the memories comes the message I need to write.
When I signed the contract and walked into Denali House to be their slave, Syn offered me a pass. A get-out-of-jail-free card in the shape of a single-use safe word.
Hopefully, that will be enough to get my message across.
I set the note down on the side and pull the engagement ring off my finger. I quickly set it down with the note. Carrying my bags so the noise of the broken wheels don’t wake Syn, I leave his room, taking all traces of my presence with me.
It’s a little after six. Syn’s father said to spend the night, which I did. Seeing as though Preston was tied up in the back of Royal’s car, I’m assuming so there was a reason for us being here while he took care of things. Even if William is still dealing with that, as far as I’m concerned, it’s early enough that I can leave without it looking suspicious.
I leave the bags by the door and then quickly look for the closet the housekeeper put my coat in. Just as I’m ready to leave, I find the right door. I put the coat on and turn around, only to find Mr. Keyingham behind me.
“You’re leaving.”
He doesn’t say it as a question, but I nod anyway. “I figured it wasn’t going to be an issue at this time.”
“It’s not.”
“Preston—”
“Has been dealt with.” William’s gaze drops to my hands. “I assume from the fact that you’re leaving, that the engagement was fake; however, I meant what I said about staying away from my son.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and taps on the screen before holding it out to me. “I’ve already spoken to my lawyers, and while I will honor my agreement and make sure they do whatever necessary to help your brother, I’d prefer that you don’t contact him again. Give me your contact details.”
He says this like he thinks I want to find an excuse to come running back to Syn, but instead of telling him the truth, that he would be doing me a favor, I take the phone and write down my contact information in silence.
When I hand the phone back to him, he gives me a business card. “This should be the last time ever need to cross paths, Ms. Reynolds. However, if for some reason, you do need to contact me, do so directly, and not through my son.”
“Sure.” I push the card into my coat pocket without looking at it.
William glances at my bags. “I’ll have my driver take you home.”
“I’ll grab a cab. It’s fine.”
“Consider this making sure you get home safely.” There’s nothing about his firm tone that convinces me he cares about my safety. He just wants to make sure I leave.
Given that the cost of a taxi from here to my home in Jersey is going to cost me a small fortune, and I’d planned to haul my cases on two buses, a ferry, and a train, I don’t put up much of a fight.
“Thank you.”
“You should leave before the others wake. My driver will be waiting for you downstairs.” Without another word, Mr. Keyingham walks away.
Taking that as my cue to pick up my bags and make my way down to the lobby, I push the button to call the elevator. Even though it’s early, and he’s had no notice, Mr. Keyingham’s driver is already waiting for me when I step out of the elevator. He takes my bags from me and carries them out to the car. As he puts them in the trunk, the building doorman follows me to the car to open the door for me.
Once inside, my body sinks into the soft leather. At this time in the morning, the drive isn’t much quicker than public transportation would have been, but I have zero words of complaint when I get to sit in the back of a nice car instead of dealing with the start of rush hour traffic by myself.
Somehow, I fight back the urge to close my eyes and sleep the journey away, and about an hour later, I’m on the sidewalk in front of my apartment building in Jersey City.
This place, my current home, is a far cry from resembling anything like Syn’s home. The only similarity is that the building is probably around the same age. Trash is still piled up by the dumpsters on the side of the road, waiting for sanitation to come down the street. Overnight, the rats have chewed through the bags, and the contents are spilling out everywhere.
When I left for James Keyingham University, there was a deli store below our apartment. Now, the windows are boarded up, and there’s a large ‘For Sale’ sign plastered over it. I was hoping I’d arrive as it was opening, so I could grab something to eat for breakfast, but it looks like I’ll have to take my chances with what’s in the cabinets.
I pick up the bags and walk to the door on the other side of the building. The lock still sticks, but I get inside without much trouble. After grabbing the mail, that looks like it’s been collecting for a few days, I carry my bags up four flights of stairs. There's no elevator in this building, though if there were, I doubt it would be working anyway.
Our front door opens into a small kitchen, and the first thing that greets me when I walk in is the smell. Somewhere inside, something is decaying. There’s not much sideboard space, but every inch of it is covered in bottles. Mixed amongst them are takeout boxes from the Chinese place down the street. As I put my bags down in the little bit of floor space, something small and furry goes running past me.
Nice.
“Mom?” I call.
I can hear voices, but I quickly realize it’s the TV playing.
Closing the door behind me, I leave the bags where they are and venture further into the apartment. After we lost the house, I lived with my mom and dad in a motel for a few months. When he left us, we had to find a place to live. Somewhere that we could afford the rent but was also spacious and comfortable. A place that didn’t exist in New York. It didn’t exist in Jersey City either.
I was prepared to settle on something worse until my mom found this by chance. Not only did it have two bedrooms—if you could call the room that was smaller than Syn’s bathroom a bedroom—where I’d be able to close the door and study, but the rent wasn’t exorbitant. What I realized later was that we’d have to deal with no air-conditioning in the summer, and an unreliable furnace in the winter.
The apartment is only just warm, but at least the heating is working today. Hopefully, my luck will hold out, and we have heat tomorrow because there’s no way anyone is coming to fix it on a Sunday if it dies.
The kitchen opens up into a small living area. The place was listed as having a separate kitchen and living room, but in reality, the landlord cobbled together three-quarters of a dividing wall from wood and plasterboard. If you lean against the wall too heavily, it wobbles.
Our dining table is pushed up against the wall, and, like the kitchen counters, is covered in trash. A mouse looks up at me from the middle of a tray of old fries before it runs away. In the corner, tucked out of the way of the front door, the small TV is on, like I guessed.
Lying on the couch in front of it, is my mom.
“Mom?” I step in front of the couch and accidentally kick some bottles over, sending them scattering into others like bowling pins.
Despite how loud the noise is, my mom barely flinches. She’s lying on her back, fast asleep. Or, judging from the bottle of almost finished vodka that she’s clutching tightly, passed out. Mom doesn’t offer much resistance as I pull the bottle from her grip and set it down on the floor beside the couch.
Whatever my plans had been, they’ve changed now. Leaving my mom to sleep, I head back into the kitchen and check the small cupboard under the sink to see what cleaning supplies we have.
Not much.
The other cabinets are almost as empty. The few plates we have are probably buried under all the trash, and the few cans are already out of date. The refrigerator has a handful of expired items, but otherwise, there’s not much rotting away in there.
I leave the apartment and then head down the street to the small grocery store. There's still a little bit of money in my account from what I earned working at the dining hall, and I use it to buy some much needed cleaning products and groceries.
For a couple of hours, I work on clearing out all of the trash and rotting food and then clean the kitchen as my mom sleeps. The sound of clinking glasses alerts me to her waking, and I head into the living room to find her sitting upright on the couch, her head between her hands.
“Hi, Mom.” I keep my voice just above a whisper, so I don’t startle her.
She looks up at me, tilting her head. “Tori? Why is your hair blue?”
Now that she’s sitting upright, I can see how she hasn’t been taking care of herself. Her clothes are dirty, and it doesn’t look like she’s showered in a few days. She’s lost weight; her face looks thin.
It took a couple of months after moving into this apartment before my mom started to drink a couple of bottles of wine a week. She said it helped her sleep. Then it was a bottle every other day.
I’d left her knowing what she was doing, but kept telling myself it would be okay because I was going to bring Cole back to her. Said enough, those words had drowned out my conscience, but now there was nothing to hold back the waves of guilt and disappointment in myself.
“Are you hungry, Mom? I can make you something to eat?” I ask, softly.
“I haven’t had a chance to buy anything.” She groans and clutches her head. “I need a drink. What did you do with my drink?”
Aside from a few bottles with a bit of liquid in the bottom of them, most of them were empty. She slept through me walking around the apartment, collecting them. Three trash bags had joined the two with the other trash I removed and took downstairs to the dumpster which was emptied since I came back.
Biting my lip, I refrain from saying anything.
This is as much my fault as it is anyone else’s. I left her here, and she only did what she thought she needed to in order to get through the day.
“Mom, there’s some hot water left. Do you want to take a shower while I find some ibuprofen? It might make you feel better.” Hungover or still drunk, I can’t tell, but I’m hoping she’s sober enough to accept this alternative.
She holds her hand out.
The painkillers I bought earlier are still in the bag in the kitchen. I quickly grab a couple, along with a large glass of water, and then take them to her.
Mom takes the pills with a few sips of water, then she allows me to help her to her feet.