Page 38 of Synced to Us

“Dee, I’m—I’m sorry.”

“There’s a lot of that going around. And I’m not accepting your apology.”

“It’s not you. I’m not mad at you.”

“You certainly sound like you are.”

“I’m frustrated by you, which is different. I’m pissed at my brother and worried and miserable about my mother. Coming here was a mistake. Bringing you was a mistake.”

Dee’s forehead smooths. Her mouth relaxes. When she angles her head, I realize where I fucked up.

“Well, that’s an easy fix.” She slams the flat side of the axe into my chest and storms away.

“Dee, c’mon,” I say to her back, and then add louder, “I didn’t mean it that way. Come back.”

She doesn’t.

When that freshly-oiled screen door swings open silently and slams shut behind her, the entire house reverberates.

Including the ground beneath my feet.

14

Dee

I’m two steps away from reaching the stairs when May discovers me.

“Dee! Come into the kitchen. I made waffles.”

“I’d love to, Mrs. Rothlessberger, but I should—”

“Oh, pish-posh. I told you to call me May. They’re my famous waffles. You absolutely have to try them before the kids devour the rest. And yes, I also mean my sons.”

I glance up the stairs, but May’s owlish, blinking eyes draw me back. She’s holding a wooden spatula, her apron is covered in flour, and her graying hair coils out of her head like she’d powered the waffle maker with sheer determination alone.

I hate being impolite, especially with the obvious effort May put in to making a nice brunch, so I nod.

“Wonderful!” Dee claps her hands, the spatula sprinkling leftover flour in the air. “Come, come. We can’t wait any longer for Winston. He’ll have to make do with leftovers.”

“He’s putting in a lot of effort outside,” I say as I trail behind her into the kitchen. It’s an effort not to focus on how he looked swinging a giant axe, shirtless and sweat-soaked, with his hair flying across his forehead and framing his low brows. I’m no photographer, but I’ve never wanted to capture a moment more. He was all but scorching with power. Well—before he used that power for evil and blamed me for all his problems. “Your firewood was looking really low.”

“Something only Winston would notice,” May says over her shoulder. “That boy’s always trying to take care of his momma, even when he was traveling the world.”

I believe it. With the amount of stress that man has carried around since stepping on this property, it’s easy to picture him constantly checking up on his Ma. Making sure her bank account was filled, and directing his brother, someone in-person, to ensure May stayed all right. Wyn gave his brother a lot of trust yet won’t trust me enough to take a look.

But…is it Wyn’s family-centric perspective that’s keeping him from allowing me access, or something else?

“How has it been having Brad living here with you and helping to take care of things?” I ask May, keeping my voice empty of judgment.

“My Bradford’s so very busy. He’s a math teacher, you know. Very smart. Teaches the seniors before they graduate.”

“A math teacher,” I repeat under my voice.

I have nothing against math teachers. In fact, I love them. The good ones set kids up for their future in a way that manages their finances, keeps them smart, and allows them to understand the importance of a budget. But Brad?

Then again, this isn’t my family. Or, as Wyn correctly, but angrily, pointed out, my business. It’s all better left alone, unsaid, and all gone once I finish these waffles and grab my things. The mysteries and inconsistencies surrounding the Rothlessbergers shouldn’t be holding me back. Wyn’s pain shouldn’t be keeping my feet in this house. It certainly shouldn’t be holding my heart hostage. I’m just a caricature of myself here. A pretend girlfriend. My presence in this home isn’t even real.

But Wyn’s music is. Flowing into my ears and sounding out of my throat without me even knowing it. His presence while I slept all through the night for the first time in years. And my conversation with Lucy. My unintended confessions. My hidden truths I never tell anyone.

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