Page 32 of Spiteful Lies

We crowd onto the small bed, and it bangs against the wall. There’s a loud knock back, and I guess Gemma has had enough of us. I wrap my arms around Bryce, and he’s looking at the scarf on the floor.

“Astrid, if you ever feel uncomfortable…”

I didn’t think I could love him more, but I do. Bryce really does care, and maybe staying together after graduation isn’t impossible. After all, I’ll be the richest girl in Rockingham.

“I wanted it,” I whisper, “I like it better this way.”

His body relaxes as the three of us cuddle on the tiny bed. An hour later, my phone chimes, but I ignore it, and then it rings. I get off the bed and find my phone. I don’t recognize the number on the screen, but it’s local, so I answer it.

“Astrid,” Mrs. Donohue’s voice is shaking. “It’s Mr. Howland. They had to rush him back to the hospital.”

Chapter 22

Astrid

The world came back quickly to kick me in the ass and remind me that my life was far from perfect. Howland has no room in my thoughts, and I really stopped caring the second Charlotte did, but Mrs. Donahue sounded frantic on the phone. Low-class Astrid would’ve flipped the fucker off. But upscale Astrid gives a damn what people think. I have to go see him.

“I’ll drive you.” Bryce pulls on his jeans minus underwear, tucking himself in. It’s tempting to slide down onto the floor and suck him off again after what he did to me.

“No, I’ll get an Uber,” I reply, grabbing a nice sweater from my closet. “I don’t want you to have to wait.”

“We don’t mind,” says Pierce. “We’ll wait in the lobby. Besides, we’ve got things to discuss.”

“What things?” I ask, eyeing them.

They exchange a look, and Pierce answers, avoiding my stern gaze. “We’ll talk about it later. Go see Howland first.”

That bothers me a lot. Instead of focusing on Howland, I keep thinking about them discussing business. And I do think about them, the entire ride to the hospital in Pierce’s car. I sit in the back seat while Bryce sits in the passenger seat, but no one talks. I keep watching them, wondering what they want to discuss. They have plans for the future, and both of them expect me to be there with them—but can we hold it together? They seem okay now, but one day they’ll make me choose. Sharing is a novelty until one of them becomes jealous.

“Astrid, don’t stress.” Bryce watches me in the rear-view. “We’ll be there waiting for you.”

I fold my arms and try not to look relaxed, not miserable. But for how long? I want to ask him. How long are you going to wait for me to decide?

***

Howland looks like shit. His eyes are closed as I walk into the hospital room in the cancer unit. A machine beeps rhythmically, and I guess that means he’s still alive though he looks half dead. His skin is whiter than the sheet that covers his frail body. Except on his arms, there are patches of black and blue where a nurse must’ve searched for a vein to inject a needle. I shudder, thankful he can’t see my reaction.

Then his thin lips curve into a smile as his eyes start to open. “Well, you finally came.”

My face flushes though I’ve no reason to feel ashamed for my honest reaction. I wish it was mixed with a little more concern. My heart wants to weigh in, but my mind keeps thinking about poor Charlotte.

“Mrs. Donahue…the housekeeper called me.” My voice falters as I stand by his bed. I swallow hard as the odor of sickness rushes into my nose. I bite my lip to keep from wincing.

Howland turns his head toward me, and a scowl alters his gaunt features into a heinous, hideous mask. “I know who she is. And I told her not to call you.”

“Why not?” Suddenly, I wish I hadn’t said it. I wish I wasn’t here.

“So you could come and gloat.” His eyes are sharp with hatred as I take a step back.

Charlotte would cry for him, but is it obvious that I just don’t care? “I feel bad about it,” I reply evenly. “I’m not heartless, no matter how much I want to be.”

Howland scoffs, turning his head away, and his uncombed hair sticks to his scalp. Is it vanity? He always dressed smartly in tailored suits and kept his chin in the air as everyone checked him out. Not now; the dingy hospital gown barely covers his bony shoulders. He must hate that someone is seeing him this way. Someone he now hates.

But I stay and drag a heavy chair over to his bedside to sit down and wait until it’s the correct time to leave. I’d have left already, but I have to ask about Charlotte. Howland has to do something for her. The timing has to be right to ask, so we wait in silence. I stare at the tubes filled with fluids, chaining him to the bed, and want to ask how he feels, but he’ll only be angry. I sit there staring patiently at a golf tournament on the TV instead.

“You’re the last Howland.” His weak voice breaks into my thoughts. “I should’ve divorced that woman and married your mother, but I didn’t, and now, I have a stranger sitting beside my deathbed.” His words are hard and dig into me. Being cruel is all he has to live for now.

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?” I ask. “I would if I didn’t have a list full of people to feel sorry for. People who deserve my sympathy.” I pause, letting it sink into his head. “Charlotte didn’t deserve what she got.”

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