Page 77 of Stealing Sunshine

“No. I gave it up when Mom told me it was a ridiculous hobby. And I don’t remember the gazebo being for me and not just a decoration piece.” My words bite as I flush hot, the back of my neck growing damp with sweat.

It’s not an angry heat despite how fucking annoyed I am with my parents. There’s something off about it. Same with the tightening of my stomach, my skin cooling despite my rising temperature.

Mom sucks in a loud breath. “Not in front of guests.”

“Do you still remember how to play?” Daisy asks me, not sparing my mother a glance.

I curl my arm around her back and tug her the slightest bit closer, hoping she can’t tell that I’m using her as comfort. There’s something about touching her like this that warms the innermost parts of myself, as if her sunshine is able to slip through the cracks and blind the darkness.

I may be a hard, cruel person, but I still believe I have a fragile, battered soul. The kind that strikes first out of fear and doesn’t allow for any prisoners. My defenses are high, but once you manage to slip past them, you’re granted free rein.

Daisy’s so far past my defenses that she’s not even detectable anymore.

Eyes fixed on her, I lower my mouth to her temple and breathe in, hoping her smell will settle my stomach. “We’d have to sit down one night and see.”

“I’d like that,” she murmurs, the tops of her cheeks taking on a pink hue.

“Bryce is right. The gazebo has become more of a lawn decoration these past few years, I’m afraid.”

Dad steals Daisy’s attention, and I glare at him before I’m fully aware of what I’m doing. He’s too tuned in to those around him to miss it. The curiosity I saw moments ago returns, now higher in intensity.

“Enough of the gazebo. I’ve arranged a light meal for us. Sit,” Mom demands.

On the ridiculously long dining table, she’s arranged four place settings, complete with fabric napkins and pale blue cushions on the chairs. My stomach rolls at the food already plated up, an invisible fist punching me deep in the gut.

I didn’t pick up the scent of fish when we arrived, but now that I see it, it’s everywhere. In my hair and on my clothes. Even on my lips, the remembrance of the taste seeping onto my tongue.

Pressing my lips together, I fight back a gag and divert my stare, focusing on the bottle of red wine already uncorked. It doesn’t help. The thought of eating or drinking anything makes me sway on my feet.

Daisy steps into me and softly taps my cheek. “Are you okay?”

“Yep,” I croak.

Mom hovers on the other side of the table, waiting for Dad to finish pulling her chair out. Smoothing down the puffy skirt of her dress, she sits and presses a kiss to his clean-shaven cheek.

“Sit down, Bryce.Arrête avec ton attitude.”

“What did you say? I’m sorry, I don’t speak French,” Daisy says.

“Oh, nothing. Now, don’t be rude, Bryce.”

“You look a little green,” Dad points out, pretending to be worried.

Daisy presses the back of her hand to my scorching hot forehead and furrows her brows. “You feel really warm. Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

I roll my eyes up to stare at the ceiling and take a small inhale before nodding and looking back at the food on the table. Mystomach thrashes so violently I have to press a hand to it as I take the chair opposite my mother.

Daisy follows close behind me, not allowing more than a couple of inches between us. Even as she sits on my right, she doesn’t stop looking at me, not even bothering to pretend to believe what I’m trying to sell everyone.

Her hand clasps on my bare thigh below the hem of my skirt, and my stomach has a fit for a completely different reason.

The smell of fish is so much stronger at the table. My lips part as I’m forced to breathe through my mouth and swallow the burn of vomit creeping up my throat. It’s almost worse this way.

Risking a look at my plate, I see the roasted asparagus tucked beneath the edge of a thick piece of salmon. The yellow sauce that’s been drizzled over the top seems to make my nausea worse, and before I can stop it, I gag.

Loudly.

Daisy’s head swings in my direction before she’s leaning over and bringing her face close to mine, our noses almost touching. “Bryce?”

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