Page 35 of Synced to Us

Her fingers dig in gently as she probes. “Wow, you had a much better doctor than me. They feel so real. I even went to New York City to get it done. Some guy on Park Avenue Winnie found for—I mean, Brad chose.”

“There are a ton of surgeons in the city,” I respond, but peer at her closer at the mention of Wyn. This must’ve been back when Nocturne Court was selling out stadiums and he was helping out his family. I never thought it’d stretch to boob jobs, but who am I to judge? “Mine was actually in Texas. I stayed there for a while.”

“But you’re so perfect.” Squeeze, squeeze. “What made you want to get fake titties?”

Again. Sputtering. This time without coffee. I shouldn’t be so affected considering I’ve heard waaaay worse with my clients. Both in finance and in bed.

I suppose it’s because Lucy’s so doll-like and sweet. I feel like I could pick her up and put her in her own dream house, complete with a pair of tow-headed, blonde twins.

“I was really flat-chested in high school,” I respond. “And was bullied a lot. As soon as I was able, I got them done. I must’ve been, oh…twenty?”

“That’s young. What’d they do?” At last, Lucy drops her hands from my cleavage. The lack of her relaxing boob squeezes seem to snap me back into reality, and the fact I divulged something about myself I normally don’t.

“Your basic juvenile shit,” I hedge. “Showing up to school on my birthday with cardboard under their shirts, stealing my bra during PE, and threading it around my locker door. Social media posts with my head on prepubescent boys’ bodies. That sort of idiocy.”

Lucy studies me. I go back to my coffee, pretending her focus isn’t unsettling. I’d figured brushing past the details as quickly as possible would make me less of a circus freak, not more.

“It’s no big deal,” I add over the rim of my mug.

Lucy doesn’t look away, as if she sees through my airy attitude and pinpoints the pain this kind of recall has. “I’m sorry you went through that. Thinking of Daisy having to endure mean-ass girls like those—ugh, it gets my back up.”

While I appreciate Lucy’s unexpected show of empathy, I’m desperate to change the narrative. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Does anyone bully you?”

Brad comes to mind, and I hope it doesn’t show on my face. Touchy territory, Dee. Be careful.

“No,” Lucy says after some thought. “I mean, this is a small town. We have our fair share of gossip, but I avoided most of it. Good girl head cheerleader dating the homecoming king two years above me—Brad, that is. And I got good grades. Stayed out of trouble. It was natural to marry my high school boyfriend right after graduation. Everybody expected it—even me. So, there he was at the altar, and there I was walking toward Brad, our future mapped out in his hands.” Lucy laughs a little too loudly. “You should’ve seen those two brothers on the wedding day. You think last night was bad? My, can Wyn throw a punch.”

“You’ve known them a long time. Have they ever gotten along?”

“Not on my watch. You’d have to ask May about their toddler years, or even when their father was alive, but I’m assuming it’s the same. I’ve never been more thankful having a boy and a girl, let me tell you.”

“You were in Wyn’s graduating class, do I have that right?”

“Sure was.” At last, Lucy’s attention flicks away, tunneling into her mug.

Something there. Although every synapse comes alive at the thought of probing further, I control myself, remembering Wyn’s tight-lipped sensitivity last night. “You know what? Sure. Let’s go for a run.”

Lucy perks up. “Yeah? Let’s do it.”

“First, I’m getting you my spare sports bra. Those girls will be aching if you run in whatever fashionably loose thing you have under there.”

Lucy pulls at her zipper. “Guilty. It was so pretty on the rack, though.”

Laughing, I run up the stairs, quietly choose a bra for Lucy and an outfit for me, and then sneak back down without Wyn even twitching a toe.

Lucy waits for me at the bottom of the stairs. She changes in the powder room, and then we’re off. The pounding of our sneakered soles thankfully replace any conversation about bullies, or pasts, or even who we’ve pretended to become.

13

Wyn

Dee comes back to me sweaty, red-faced, and with a tank and shorts basically painted on her body.

Sexy as hell.

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