Page 81 of Wristlocked
Christ, I’m fucking broken.
I roll my head to meet his eyes, then surge selfishly forward to press my lips to his one last time. He sinks into it, tragically soft, before bringing his hand to my chest and pushing me away.
“I’m going to find Gia now,” he says. “I’ll talk to her, and—” He shakes his head. “Please don’t do anything stupid.”
“Too late.” I try to smile, but it comes out crooked. He’s not going to hit me. He’s not going to kiss me again either. Hethinks he’s fighting for something worth saving, but I already know what side he’ll come down on.
There’s only ever been one side, and it’s always been hers.
40
Gia
Istand in the dark, deserted quiet of the quad and try not to cry. I fucking hate crying. Monsters don’t cry; they devour. Mine seems to be broken right now, though. Instead of rising up to gobble the agony in my chest and the ache in my throat, she’s curled in a pathetic little ball, glaring at me with accusing eyes.
I don’t know where to go. To get to my room in the dorm, I have to walk back through the lounge, past Vaya and Jules, who will know something’s wrong and crush me with well-meaning concern. Not to mention Carmen and Viktor are probably still there gloating. Even if I make it past that torture, Lyot will find me, and I’m not sure I can face him right now, no matter how badly I want to crawl into his arms and pretend we’re fifteen again. Lyot will understand, better than anyone, but I took something from him tonight too, and I don’t deserve his comfort.
I can’t go home. Anything I say to my mother at this point will only resurrect the old disappointment in her eyes, and I don’t even have the keys to the Acura. As far as I know, they’re still in the pocket of Lyot’s jeans.
In the end, I call Jo to pick me up and swear her to secrecy.
“Don’t tell Lyot I’m here. Please,” I beg until she agrees. She wraps me in a crocheted blanket on her old couch and brings me a cup of Earl Grey, rich with honey and cream, and pries everything out of me in her gentle, inexorable way, tears and all.
“Can I tell you a story?” she asks when I’m raw and spent and quiet.
“Will it help?”
“I don’t know.” She squeezes my hands, clasped in hers. “But I think you need to hear it.”
“Okay.”
“You remember the summer you and Lyot went to the ENC Youth Summer Program?”
“Of course.” We were fourteen, and I had been going for the last three years, but it was Lyot’s first time. I remember my giddy excitement at having him with me. Two weeks in Montreal, away from our parents, training with other top teens from around the world at the headquarters of Cirque du Soleil itself.
“He was so excited.” She smiles fondly. “He wanted to do everything you did in those days. God, he idolized you.”
“The feeling was pretty mutual,” I assure her.
“Do you know who wrote his letter of recommendation?”
“Coach Curl and one of Naomi’s parents?”
“Coach Curl and your mother.”
“My mother? Why?”
“Because I asked her to. Because I thought she could give Lyot the best chance of getting accepted.”
“Lyot never told me.”
“Lyot doesn’t know. He would never have agreed to it. His loyalty to you was possibly the only thing stronger than his ambition. And even that ambition was all wrapped up in you.”
I pull my hands from hers and fidget with the edge of the blanket, feeling like I should apologize, but Jo continues. “I asked your parents to keep it quiet.”
“Why are you telling me now? So I have another fun story about how my parents threw their names around behind my back?”
“So that maybe you’ll think about why they did it. Your mother and I weren’t friends. As far as they knew at that time, Lyot was just another pesky kid with moderate potential following their daughter around.”
