By the time the black town car pulls up to my home, the small pounding in my head is now a full-blown headache. I scan the front yard, checking for unwanted paparazzi waiting to snap my picture, before opening the car door.
“Don’t forget these.” Oaklynn hands me the bouquet of balloons. It makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time, but instead, I give her a small smile and take them from her.
“Happy Birthday, Saylor.” She gets out and hugs me, holding on extra tight, because she knows I need it. I’m not ready to end the night; I don’t want to go back to my reality. And, I really don’t want to face my mom and Mila. I don’t want them to know my night was a disaster. Mom had begged me to cancel, somehow knowing this was probably going to be the result. That my heart would be crushed.
I run up the front stoop and wave over my shoulder as Oaklynn’s car pulls away from my curb. The light is on in the front entry, and it’s safe to assume my mom is still awake. I slip off my favorite pair of gold, butterfly winged heels, my sixteenth birthday gift from my parents, and tiptoe toward the stairs.
“Saylor?” My mom’s voice calls from the kitchen. I freeze, one hand on the banister, and step lightly. The instant groan from the ancient wooden floors gives me away. Within three heartbeats, my mom’s figure emerges. Kelly Torre looks haggard. For the first time in days, I take the time to actually see her. Blue smudges, evidence from lack of sleep, under her eyes contrast with her pale complexion. The freckles across the bridge of her nose are more prominent. She’s in her pajamas, her honey brown hair piled on top of her head, and a loose bathrobe hangs off her shoulders. She pulls the extra material tighter to her body. She’s lost weight. We haven’t had a meal together all week, and, looking at her now, I’m guessing she hasn’t eaten that whole time.
“How was the party, Sweetheart?” she asks, yawning at the same time. I have to fight the urge to hurl an insult or a jab. I want to shake her and ask her how she thinks it was now that I’m a social pariah. Instead, my shoulders shrug, and I choke back my emotions.
“I have a headache,” I tell her, while pinching the bridge of my nose between my fingers.
“Oh.” She quickly scurries back into the kitchen. I hear bottles rattle and then she returns with two reddish orange pills. “Take these. You’ll feel better.” I hold out my hand, and she dumps them into my waiting palm.
“Thanks,” I mutter, and start ascending the stairs.
“Happy Birthday, Saylor,” she calls to me softly. My eyes slam shut because, as much as I want to crumble into a crying mess in her arms, I know there is nothing she can do about the pain twisting my insides. She isn’t the one who is responsible. But she’s here and he’s not. I don’t get the luxury to unload all my anger on the parent who deserves it. Instead of thanking her, I climb the rest of the stairs to my room.
With my back safely pressed against the closed door of my room, I finally release the balloons from my grip. I watch as the pastel colors float to the ceiling and spread out. Frustrated, I take the little pain relievers form my palm and swallow them down quickly, before washing my face in my bathroom. My body is bone tired. The week long anxiety wave I’ve been riding has now crashed. I’m drowning in unknowns. I shut off the lights and welcome the darkness. The pain in my temples throbs a little less, as I slide the material of my party dress down my body and leave it pooled on the floor of my closet. I snatch my favorite sleep shorts and tank from their drawer and dress quickly, barely making it to my bed before my legs give out. My eyes close, and my breathing shallows. Sleep is my friend, and tonight, I welcome it wholeheartedly.
Hearts and Flowers Sneak Peek
Chapter One
End of August
Darrian
“You sure you don’t want me to wait for you?” Ethan asks me again as he swings his truck into the empty parking spot closest to the door.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him for the fifth time since he picked me up at the house. Slowly pushing open the truck door, I turn to take the padded end of the crutches from him. I place them down on the pavement before letting my good leg touch down, next followed by my casted leg.
“I really don’t mind, D,” Ethan lets me know. I can feel his eyes watching my jerking movements as I try to straighten my leg before moving. I love the kid, but he’s been a pain in my ass for the past three months.
“I know,” I respond before nodding at the brick wall of the building, “I have to do this on my own though.” I can hear him let out a frustrated breath as he reaches over to slam the door closed behind me.
“I’ll pick you up in a couple hours,” he pushes his Ray-Bans down over his eyes again before backing up. I watch him squeal the truck’s wheels out of the parking lot before hobbling my way to the dusty red doors.
The musty smell of the basement reaches my nose. I hold my breath until I make it to the long corridor of the new addition just like every other week. I breathe again when I get into the room and take a seat in the only open chair left. Conversations around me stop for a few seconds while I get situated, the metal of the crutch brushes against the metal chair. “Sorry,” I mutter apologetically for the noise and for arriving a few minutes after the scheduled time.
“Mr. King, thank you for joining us,” the reverend acknowledges my presence like every week and like all the other times I sag in my seat a little more. It’s no secret about my accident or the fact that I was injured, losing my scholarship and ride to UNC. Being a King though, the fact that I was under the influence was tightly sealed away by a judge who plays golf with my father. In exchange, I was sent to rehab, my license was taken by my parents for six months, and I need to be here weekly until otherwise determined. Privilege of being rich and having a father who will be pushing taking Stanford up on their offer once I’m healed, I guess. Just another bitter, heavy lie sitting on my chest. I needed some relief, something to take the edge off, to push away the pain in my leg and to make the knowing stares from the people in the room fade to nothing. Anonymous my ass.
“Can I say something?” I ask, watching as his eyebrows raise up in shock. I’ve been here and listened to every sob story real and fake for the past two months and I never take a turn.
“That’s what we’re here for,” he says gently. Supposedly he’s a man of God, but I see the judgmental look on his face every time he looks at me. I wonder if my father bought his silence too.
Pushing down the shame and anger, I stand from my seat, the metal scrapes against the floor when I bend to pick up the crutches again. The room has gone silent as I make my way to the single wooden podium at the front of the room. I’ve never had a problem with public speaking. Never felt embarrassed to call someone out or to play ball in a gymnasium full of people depending on me. It never made me falter knowing scouts were there to see me play and my whole future rode on those games. I had thrived on the fear, thrill, and power. It was something different though to stand in front of this crowd, in the basement of a church, and acknowledge my greatest regret. That’s what I was supposed to do. That’s what these meetings were really about. I had acknowledged the mistake I made with my family, but I had yet to make peace with it for myself.