He dropped me like I was fire.
I reached for him, to soothe the ache on his face.
“I mean—” but before either of us could say anything more, the hallway was flooded with people.
Once again, I couldn’t speak. Bodies moved past in a blur of somber colors as Grayson and I could only share our stare.
Because I was relegated to the life of a mistress once more.
Thirty-Two
GRAY
You sound like your grandfather.
She was right.
Fuck.
She was right.
Now, while my mother glared at the triplets who had the audacity to sit alone and not try any of the food she’d had the servants prepare, while Lottie wispily stared out the window, and while Story stared at me with questions in her eyes… I reread Story’s secret letter to me, over and over again. I read the letter that made me seek her out after the funeral in the first place.
Dear Atlas,
Today he said, if I loved you, then why did I sleep with him?
Today he said, I don’t love you, not the way I think I do. Because if I loved you, I would never have sought him out.
Today I wondered, why did all of those questions feel so fucking wrong? Like a trap. My love for you is a house for which I constantly need to buy new beds and build new rooms. I love you more than I have space to feel.
Today I wondered…why do I have an urge to sink into that trap, like quicksand in my heart? He’s right, it whispers. You’re bad, it whispers.
If I make a mistake, does that mean I’m not worthy of loving you anymore?
If that’s the case, then I will take my punishment and penance.
Because I love you.
I don’t want to keep you from someone who can love you without mistake.
She still wouldn’t tell me about her secret letters. I was beginning to wonder if she even thought of them as secrets, if she even realized she was keeping them from me.
If she was starting to keep them from herself.
Maybe a funeral wasn’t the best place for love letters, but for us, it felt right. I wanted Story’s imperfect love. I wanted her honesty, because she was the only one who loved me enough to be honest.
You sound like your grandfather.
My eyes lifted to the triplets.
“They’re orphans now.”
I jumped. “Jesus, Gemma.”
Gemma stared forward, across the sitting room where the triplets sat alone. They waved their hand no to yet another frangipane tart. From across the room, my mother watched them, picking at her bottom lip.
“Do you remember when Dad died and they came to the funeral?” Gemma continued. “How old were they then?”
“Young…” I said. “Really young.” Which is saying something because we were barely children ourselves.
“Mom told me not to talk to them. I remember she said something super-fucked up, but I didn’t realize it until…” Gemma trailed off on a laugh. “Well, now, I guess. She told me Grandfather could only love a certain amount of granddaughters, and if I was friends with Jo, he might love her more. I used to think about that when he showed Abigail all that affection…” Her brow wrinkled, and she turned to me. “Do you think she told Abigail the same thing?”
They’re your competition now.
Words my grandfather said to me at my father’s funeral echoed back in my head as I watched the triplets sit alone at their mother’s funeral.
Every interaction I’d had with them was tainted by my grandfather—a man I hated, a man I loathed. He had influenced my decisions on an unconscious level for years.
I rubbed my forehead.
Maybe they did know something. Maybe I should talk to them. Where the fuck do I start?
I didn’t know the first thing about them.
“Have you ever talked to them?” I asked.
Gemma arched a dark blonde brow. “Have you?”
Not once. Ever. Not even an “excuse me” or a more likely “get the fuck out of my way.”
“Do you think they’re gonna get revenge?” Gemma asked lightly.
“On who?”
“Does it matter?” Gemma laughed. “I think Abigail put Nair in my shampoo bottle once. Maybe they’ll do that.”
“Yeah. That’ll make up for the death of their mother.”
My father left only orphaned and fucked-up children as his legacy. I can’t let that be mine.
But everywhere I looked, there was someone I’m letting down.
Lottie—her and her child, our child…
Snitch. Always Snitch.
My sister standing beside me. Would I really abandon her into a marriage with West? A fucking monster?
I couldn’t let her marry West.
A hero, a good man, a father—an impossible dream. Did my father have this exact moment, staring out at a room filled with choices, wondering what the right one was? What would hurt the least amount of people?
My lungs were starting to close. I snatched a frothy white cocktail from a passing server so fast their silver tray wobbled.
My sister eyed me as I swallowed my drink in one gulp. “If you need help…If there’s anything you need help with…”
I looked back to the main problem I couldn’t solve, currently on West’s arm. Story looked like my little nun again. How fucked was that? That at a funeral she finally looked like herself.
I exhaled. “There’s nothing you can help with, Gemma.”
I placed my empty drink on the tray of another passing server, and turned to leave. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but I needed some fucking air.
“Grayson!” Gemma grabbed me, stopping me.
Bemused, I looked at the black-polished nails curling around my suit jacket. “The fuck, Gemma?”
“You think I don’t know what you’re dealing with, but I do. I’ve been engaged since the day I started my period. Mom had the maids hand me a tampon, and by the time I’d come out of the bathroom, Grandpa had called Horace’s father.”
I looked at my sister—really looked at her. Gemma was in a black shift dress that hung heavy on her arms. Something plucked right off the Paris runway, I’m sure. And just like the runway, she looked like she’d been losing weight.
Her eyes found mine.
Big and blue, like mine, but her foundation was failing to hide her circles.
She had a pill problem, but like everything Crowne, it was shoved under the rug. I wondered what else she’d been shoving under the rug.
She slowly let me go. “You’ve been privileged, little bro. You’re only just now starting to realize how fucked up our world is.”
STORY
Hours after the funeral had ended, I found Grayson staring at a family portrait. He looked about six in the painting, so then his sister Gemma seven and Abigail five. He was standing proudly next to his father, and his mother was seated next to his sisters.
A hero for my sisters. A good man. A good father.
Grayson’s dream was like rain on a sunny day against the resigned look in his gaze.
“You’re hiding something,” I said.
He spun.
“Does it have to do with your grandpa? You don’t think it’s a good thing he left either, do you?”