Page 30 of Synced to Us

“Clearly our evening catch-up is over.” Lucy bounces a whimpering Daisy on her hip. “Brad, come with me. I’ll get you fixed up.”

Brad swipes at his mouth, following his wife, but not before leveling a long, dark look at his brother as he takes his son’s hand. “As always, welcome home, Winnie.”

“Screw y—” Wyn starts to spit out, but pauses. He glances frantically around the room. “Ma? Where’s Ma?”

I’m just as surprised. “I didn’t hear her or see her leave. Do you think she—?”

Wyn clasps my shoulders, bending to my level until the blue irises of his eyes swirl. “Go upstairs. Second room on the left. I’ll meet you there.”

“But—”

“Dee. Please.”

My shoulders sag under his weight. “Okay. I’ll see you up there.”

“Yeah.”

Wyn whirls around, his long strides taking him out of the dining room and into the kitchen before I can blink, where rattling glasses and his mother’s mewls follow. Wyn’s calm, soothing tone acts like a lullaby drifting over the floorboards and swirling near my ears. I have to use everything in me not to chase after him.

Instead, I take the stairs as quietly as I can. When I reach the top, I count the doors and try not to listen to the murmurs and coo’s coming out of what must be the closed bathroom door, as water runs soon after.

The third door on the right is ajar, with a blue-tinted glow coming out of the room. I push it open, stepping all the way in, and then clicking the door softly shut behind me.

Not bothering with an overhead light, I pad over to the twin bed. I perch on the edge, the comforter bunching in my fingers as I think back to all that went wrong this evening. We were destined for bad luck the moment I stepped out of my apartment.

Except…

Wyn swept me off my feet in the subway. He made space on the train so I could collect myself—I doubt he knows I noticed that. There hasn’t been a ton of opportunity to get to know him on a deeper level before this deal of ours. I’ve only ever seen Wyn as the good guy, the comic relief in his merry band of four. Rex was the sourpuss, Mason the rebel, Easton the quiet, tortured poet, and Wyn, the happy go-lucky dude who’d rather see humor in a situation than ponder its seriousness.

So, how did that clumsy, good-natured goofball turn into…a beast?

Standing, I pull off my shirt. My suitcases are stacked in a corner, and I pull the top one off and search for decent pajamas. It was obvious we’d be sharing a bed at Wyn’s family home. He didn’t mention pious parents or a mother who’d prefer the girlfriend be in a separate room, so I packed a basic cotton tank and shorts. I slip them on now in the relative privacy of the room. The walls are thin and I can hear every thump and low tones of conversation. None of them sound like Wyn. I’m sure I’ll hear his steps well before he makes it to the door.

Brad, however … he’s different. That old, instinctive buzz in my blood simmers below my skin, warning me he’s the type to sneak a peek at his brother’s girlfriend as she unclasps her bra. There’s no lock on the door and I constantly glance at the knob until I’m finished changing and under the covers.

Breathing deep, I think about Wyn’s behavior downstairs. It was devastating to watch his face transform from one of idle friendliness to pure vitriol in the span of a second. If eyes could turn bloodshot in a blink, his would’ve. Tendons bulged. His body went taut. Yet, he cleared that table with the grace of a pouncing lion.

Was I part of the problem? I all but thanked him for his public transport chivalry by nosing in on his family life, adding to the conversation about his money problems, and calling his brother an asshole (deserved, but still).

I was supposed to be taking on the role of a supportive girlfriend.

I’m rustier than I thought. No—I’m embarrassingly out-of-touch. I’ve never screwed up a job so epically before.

And this time, I can’t even use sex to fix it.

11

Wyn

It takes some time to get Ma settled into bed. I wipe the pooling tears under her eyes, her mascara inking my thumbs. She moans her apology, clutching my arms and assuring me it’s not my fault. Brad’s stressed at work, and she was only trying to do what’s right by inviting them into her home.

I tell her, in as calm a voice as I can, that it’s all right. We’ll figure it out. No harm done.

But there’s so much pain.

As gently as I can, I extract the wine bottle from the skeletal grip of her hands. It takes even more restraint to prevent myself from hurling it at the wall and reveling in the sound of shattering glass.

My mother’s tears are more important than broken puddles of wine, so I took her in my arms and carried her upstairs, avoiding the activity in the bathroom.

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