Page 31 of Synced to Us

“Winston, I’m sorry. I can’t—there wasn’t time to put it to my mouth. I promise.”

“There’ve been too many apologies tonight,” I respond, but don’t look her in the eye as I pull the covers over her small frame. I thought I smelled the alcohol on her breath as soon as she hugged me in the entryway. “We’ll start fresh in the morning.”

“Fresh. Bright and true. Yes, we’ll wake up happy with all the birds.”

The bleary way her eyes drift to mine explains more of what happened tonight than her promises ever could. She’s drinking again.

“I love you, Ma.”

“Love you, too, my youngest and greatest.”

I kiss the top of her forehead and turn out the light beside her bed in hopes she’ll fall asleep.

I’m hyper aware of Dee waiting in my room, likely confused and stunned. Embarrassment rocks against my gut at the vision of her sitting on my bed, arms crossed, and her brows tense as she tries to make sense of my situation. I have a hell of a time bypassing my room, but manage to take the steps two at a time downstairs.

Brad seems to be out of commission for the rest of the night, and Lucy won’t leave his or the kids’ side, so I use their desertion to my advantage and clean up the mess in the dining room. After that, I head into the kitchen and open every cabinet, pull out every drawer, until I find Ma’s stash.

And find it I do.

Mouth grim, I take the cache out the backdoor and pour it all into the grass. Then I toss the bottles in the trash bin, tipping my face to the night sky and spreading my arms, capped with fists, at the satisfying sound of breakage. Nobody hears my roar, since I leave it inside me, where I can scream the loudest.

Exhausted, I lug myself back into the house, lock up, and trudge up to my room.

Dee’s probably KO’d by this point. At least, I hope she is.

But hope is always a faulty fucker.

“Hey,” she greets as I step in. The indigo-blue of my vintage lava lamp puts her in an ethereal light as she reclines against the headrest, her cheekbones pearlescent.

One thing is clear: Dee Sparrow doesn’t belong in my teenaged bedroom. Her sleek, graceful body is surrounded by creased posters of Nirvana, Sublime, and Pink Floyd. Ancient CD cases featuring 311 and Queen are part of what gives my lamp its needed height on the night-table beside her. And hell—the bedspread. The navy comforter she bunches around her legs lists all the planets, in name and in colored graphics, and the pillowcases and sheets showcase glow-in-the-dark stars.

Ma never saw the need to update my room when I left, but I’m fucking seeing it now.

A strap of Dee’s tank top slips off her shoulder as she sits up. I pause in the middle of my internal tirade, zeroing in on her smooth shoulder as she slides it back in place.

“You okay?” She wraps her arms around her knees.

Oh, yeah. About that whole meltdown in the dining room… “Welcome to Rothlessberger dinners. I’m sorry about that.”

She shrugs, those deliciously smooth shoulders rising and falling in the dim light. “It happens. It’s not like I expected perfection. I’ve had my share of dinner fights.”

“Have you?”

Dee’s body goes still. She focuses on the far corner of the room before coming back to me, and saying, “Sure. Family dynamics are fairly predictable. Siblings fight, parents get upset, kids cry.”

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Talk in generalities like that.” I hook the hem of my T-shirt and pull it over my head. I toss it near the dresser. “I don’t know you that well, but I notice how, when asked a direct question, you almost answer it before you brush it off. I saw it at the train station, and I’m witnessing it now. It’s like you’re an actress who flubs her lines, but picks up right where she left off as if nothing happened before the director can even yell cut.”

Her lips part in surprise, but her eyes narrow. “Am I wrong in assuming you wanted a girlfriend this weekend?”

I stiffen at the sudden turn in her voice. “No. You’re not wrong.”

“Okay, then, that’s what I’m doing. We don’t know each other outside of our short meet-and-greets when Mason and McKenna are around. In order to be believable, I have to play a role. We’re allegedly in love. And besides, pretending is what I do. I was very good it as an escort, and I still use it for my job now, when I have to.”

“I know. You’re absolutely pristine, Dee Sparrow.”

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