Page 2 of Forged By Shadows

As soon as the doors are opened at his back, I barge onwards. My shoulder connects with his ribs, hurting at least one of us, and I drag Meg with me. A shudder rolls through my spine, a headache quickly seeping in. I desperately shove aside the awareness of his body, firm and unmovable. The smell of his expensive cologne, the way his green eyes drag over me like prey. Fuck, I really try, and fail miserably.

The cameras follow, constantly flashing, waiting for the moment I snap and give them a real headline. That’s the only thought which keeps me from flipping out. Entering the kitchen, I hunt for privacy as the caterers usher everyone else away until they’re ready. Meg and I slip behind the door, slumping against wallpaper flaked with real gold.

“Psst,” our cook, Nancy, ducks her head around the corner. “We’ll direct the guests into the ballroom. Grab what you need and escape while you still can.” I manage a small smile at Nancy’s wink, her hair neatly contained in its black net. The staff here are like extended family, since I rarely leave the mansion. There’s been no need. My tutors come Monday to Friday, Meg is here more than she’s home on the weekends and the dance studio is my safe haven. Meg doesn’t waste a second, grabbing a bottle of champagne from an ice bucket and an entire tray of canapés before we rush upstairs to my bedroom.

Slamming the door shut with her back, Meg hands me the bottle so she can fan herself. “How does Wyatt get hotter every time he comes home?” My mouth drops open and I stumble while kicking off my heels. Dropping heavily on the bed, Meg dives next to me a moment later, her smile too mischievous.

“That’s seriously not the first thing you’re going to say after I just said goodbye to my mom,” I scoff, turning my attention to the bottle’s cork. I probably shouldn’t drink before the burial, due to take place in the gardens in an hour, but I don’t know if I have the energy to leave this room again. I’ve already put myself through a whole morning of being ogled at. I’m the Rapunzel in this tower, hidden away from view, often left to her own devices. My grief is private, as my life used to be.

“Oh, please,” Meg nudges my arm. “You were totally thinking it too.” My best friend, ladies and gentlemen, and her uncanny ability to hide any real hint of emotion. I suppose it comes with the territory being a therapist’s daughter. My therapist.

Jumping up, Meg locates a black baseball cap, turns it backwards and uses it to pin up her hair. Despite wearing a dress, she gives her best Wyatt impression, and I wish I could say it’s the first time I’ve seen it.

“Yo, Aves. I’m just too manly to admit my feelings, but at least I’m hot,” she mutters huskily. There’s an excessive amount of jaw stroking and hip jerking. “You know I hate being around you but I’m such a douche, I can’t keep my eyes off you.” Grabbing a handful of her imaginary ballsack, Meg snarls her top lip and snakes her head from side to side. An uncanny resemblance, truly.

A laugh is forced past my lips. A stab of guilt quickly accompanies it. I shouldn’t enjoy any part of today – not even the distractions Meg is trying to provide and especially not at Wyatt’s expense. I turn my attention back to popping the champagne with a dramatic flow of bubbles, which Meg rushes to catch in her mouth. I call her a few choice words, taking a swig from the bottle myself. Sinking against my headboard, we sigh in unison.

“He won’t stay,” I comment into the quiet which settles. My foot is tapping. “He never does.” Describing mine and Wyatt’s relationship as love/hate is putting it mildly. As long as I’m around, he refuses to spend a single night in his own home, preferring to hide in his fancy boarding school. And in the summers, if all other options fail, he stays in the pool house. Anything to avoid seeing me.

“It’s not your fault, Aves. None of it,” Meg returns to her own voice, picking at the tray of canapés. “I’m going to miss Cathy too.” I lean into her, nodding absentmindedly. I hear her words, I understand their truth, but it doesn’t matter. If I wasn’t around, Catherine would have spent more time staring at her son’s face in real life, rather than through the photographs lining her dresser. I prefer the photos personally; they are the only way I know what Wyatt’s smile looks like.

“Hey, remember the time we spent all day trying to make that fort in the living room?” Meg perks up. I smile distantly.

“No matter how hard we tried, it just kept falling down.”

“Your mom had barely put down her travel bags when she called for the staff to help us. Within an hour, we had the most epic fort around the TV. It had multiple rooms and snack compartments. We refused to come out, sleeping in there for three days until Nixon started complaining that the manor looked like a squatter’s spot.” I snort a laugh, drinking more champagne.

“She stayed in there with us, watching old movies, stargazing at the projector. Mom may not have always been here, but when she was, her attention was solely on us.” Meg’s arm slides around my shoulder, hugging me into her.

“Her attention was solely on you, Aves.”

True to my word, I don’t resurface for the rest of the day. Meg and I eventually shed our black, tight-fitting dresses and replace them with sweatpants and hoodies. The afternoon is lost to snacking and binging a new romcom series. I barely take any of it in, but the background noise helps to block out the burial happening beyond my balcony. Mom would understand. I’ve never been one for living in the spotlight. I will grieve on my own terms, in my own time. At some point, I dozed off, only to be woken by Meg sneaking back into bed with a tub of ice cream and two spoons.

Orange tones begin to bleed into the sky through the windows. Car engines signal the departure of guests until the noise on the floor below has decreased significantly. With every muffled goodbye, my heart eases slightly knowing this difficult day is nearly over. I’m practically a puddle of relief when my door abruptly flies open loudly, the intrusion of muscle making me screech.

“Dad’s office. Now.” Wyatt’s deep voice commands our attention, despite speaking fairly quietly. The death glare in his green eyes leaves no room for negotiation, so I jump down from my high bed and gesture for him to lead the way. Three steps out of the door, I stumble and crash into Wyatt’s back. He steps aside, watching me fall ass over tit onto the floor.

“You’re fucking wasted,” he growls in the base of his throat. “Today of all days.” Striding away, Wyatt’s dress shoes click on the marble staircase until he’s out of sight. Meg slides her arms beneath mine, helping me to stand. Her wobbly smile and unfocused eyes aren’t any better than mine, as I spy the several wine bottles littering my bedroom floor. Fuck, I didn’t even notice her sneaking them in, or that I was drinking all day on effectively an empty stomach.

“You’ve got this,” Meg tries to bolster me. It doesn’t help much when I have to hug the railing down the stairs and slide one fluffy sock in front of the other to reach Nixon’s office. The door is open, two figures shrouded in the fireplace’s glow waiting for me.

“Come on in, sweetheart,” Nixon coaxes. I manage to reach the high back armchair and settle myself down, keeping my gaze on the man across the mahogany desk. “Ironic, isn’t it?” He chuckles to himself. “The one thing Cathy wanted, and it’s finally happened when she’s no longer here to see it.” There’s no need to ask what it is. Wyatt and I haven’t willingly been in the same room in years.

Holding a glass of gin in his hand, Nixon seems to have given up on his appearance for today. I’m sure he’d rather a whiskey, but he refuses to stock it. His hair is disheveled, the plum-colored tie hanging uselessly under open buttons to reveal his graying chest hair. Not even the sharp jawline and high cheekbones he and Wyatt share can stop him from appearing defeated in the fire’s flickering.

I dare to steal a glance at Wyatt, but he keeps his face forward. A tick beats in his clenched jaw, waiting for Nixon to continue.

“We could have been a proper family. A complete one,” he babbles on. I look away, tears blurring in my eyes. If Nixon cracks now, there’s no hope for me. Mom was taken from us so suddenly, so viciously. The morticians are miracle workers for the way she appeared today, not a single scratch visible of the car wreckage she was pulled from, killed on impact.

Nixon chuckles to himself again, but his pale eyes look blank and glazed. Throwing the rest of his gin back, Wyatt’s scowl deepens in my peripheral vision while I fiddle uncomfortably with the hem of my hoodie.

“Things change, today.” Nixon seems to sober slightly, staring intently at Wyatt as if I’m not in the room. “I must return to my business in New York tomorrow evening. It is imperative that Avery is cared for.” I chew on the inside of my cheek. I’ve been left alone many times before, under the supervision of my tutors and the house staff. Keren has upped my therapy sessions to twice a week for the time being, and I have a ballet exam fast approaching. Plenty to keep my mind busy. Nixon thinks carefully over his next words and delivers them with brutal confidence.

“This year’s semester is only a few weeks in. I’ve spoken to Dean O’Sullivan, and Avery starts at Waversea College on Monday morning. I’ve set her up with a dorm, and you, Wyatt, will look out for her.”

The silence which follows is filled with tension; a physical pressure I can feel pushing onto my chest. Wyatt’s lack of reaction scares me more than if he’d flipped the table, his eyes turning murderous. More than that, the sinking ball of dread in my stomach explodes, my thoughts racing around my delayed and sloshy brain.

I…I can’t leave. I rarely ever leave the mansion. It’s my home, a safety barrier between me and the outside world. And Nixon intends to drop me into a school, in Wyatt’s dorm building and expect him not to kill me in my sleep? I’m hyperventilating before Wyatt’s even blinked.

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