Page 37 of Deceitful Promises

“How did you two meet?” I say, trying to change the subject.

“She saved me,” Theodore speaks with enthusiasm.

“That’s an exaggeration,” Mom says.

“It isnot. I was at a loss with my career and my life. Then one day, while getting wasted at a bar I had no business being at, there she was—my angel, my Molly.”

“It wasn’t as romantic as he’s making it sound,” Mom tells me. “I was working as a barmaid, trying to put the past behind me—still terrified, honestly, of …”

“Of my dad,” I say.

She nods. “I didn’t know what this rich guy wanted with me. I was nervous, cold, and probably mean, but he kept coming back. We did crosswords.”

I can’t help but smile. “Crosswords?”

“That way, I didn’t have the chance to bore her with one of my long-winded stories.” Theodore takes Mom’s hands, the apparent love shimmering between them. “We could just focus on the crosswords. Eventually, she figured out I wasn’t trying to guess the answers. I just wanted each crossword to last as long as possible.”

Even Aiden has a slight smile on his face as he watches them.

“What about …” I pause, realizing how rude that would be.

Aiden glances at me. “My mother died almost a decade ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s life,” Mom says. “People pass; people move on. Tragedies happen. Somehow, we learn to deal with it. We learn to keep moving.”

I nod, clinging to her words. That’s what I’ll always have to do. Keep moving. Whatever happens, even if it means letting go of this stuff with Aiden. I mean, what stuff, anyway? It’s not like I can give into this desire, feelings that shouldn’t even exist if we’re going to play like happy families.

I need to be strong. I need to take action, not just let life happen to me. Maybe there’s a way I can have my brothersandmy mom in my life.

“I want to come tomorrow,” I tell Aiden.

CHAPTER 17

AIDEN

Sleep never usually comes easily to me at the best of times, and this isn’t the best of times. I sit on the bed, the sheets still on, letting my hand work as I move the blade over the piece of wood. Tiny flakes of wood chip away, floating to the floor. It’s no surprise when I see the edge of a ballerina’s dress begin to form, her arms stretched in the air. When I finish, I put it on the counter next to the one I completed at 2 a.m. It’s 3:30 a.m. now.

Lying in bed, I try closing my eyes, but all I see is mayhem, and then Ania, like I saw her when I was fantasizing in the shower, her body right there for me, just for me.

“Just for me,” I repeat, realizing how insane it sounds.

My phone vibrates. “Visitor wants to talk” appears on the screen. This notification tells me somebody in the “guest room”—Ania’s prison—wants to talk. We’ve only used that room once before when we had trouble with some criminal types, andhewasn’t getting his calls answered.

I swipe the phone.

“Ania?” I ask.

“I’m not sleepwalking,” she says. “Just so you know.”

“You sound lucid to me,” I agree.

“I just … It’s kind of, well, it’s silly, but …”

“You don’t have to be ashamed,” I tell her, “of anything. What is it?”

“It’s just there’s this big spider right next to my bed and … Don’t worry. No, it’s fine.”

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