Page 70 of State of Mind

His mother relented about the interpreter eventually, but it was up to him then to find someone decent, and it took nearly the entire day to track someone down that last minute. There wasn’t enough in his mother’s savings to cover it, and his father’s policy wasn’t paying out right away, but Jayden told him not to worry, and the next day he got the invoice that was marked paid in full.

Wilder: I can’t let you pay for this.

Jayden: Yes, you can. Tim and I are more than happy to. Please don’t sweat it. I love you. Come home soon.

Wilder didn’t have the strength to respond, but he held the phone to his heart like maybe he could imprint that text and keep it with him when the day got harder—and he knew it would. His mother was calm, which meant the storm was on its way. He’d never trust her, and he didn’t want to be here when she broke and unleashed her hell on whoever was around.

His mother had loved the man she married, and in a sort of dark, unfair way, he understood her pain. Someday, he might know it. Someday—if he and Luca made it as far as his parents had—he might know what it was like to lose him, and the thought of it made him sick.

As he stood there, staring at the coffee machine and waiting for it to finish brewing, he let himself think of Luca without restraint. He let himself feel the empty, gaping hole that came with missing him and fearing he wouldn’t actually come back. Luca hadn’t said much in his last text, just that he’d talked with a few friends and spent the night with Noah and Adriano, and Wilder hadn’t asked for assurances or promises. He was afraid Luca would remember he liked it back in California. He was afraid he’d miss his life of luxury too much, and that Wilder wasn’t enough to come back to Savannah for.

It was ironic, in a way, because he had begged Luca not to need him. He’d told Luca he couldn’t shoulder that burden of being the one he stayed for, and now that was the only thing in the world he wanted.

He startled a moment later when he felt the counter under his hand vibrate, and he looked over to see Willow leaning against the cabinet with a frown on her face. Growing up, everyone always said they could see the resemblance, but Wilder had never been able to. She favored their dad, with coarse curls and darker skin and rich eyes, and Wilder had inherited almost everything from his mother. And maybe that was why she despised him—he had been her protégé who failed her at birth. And maybe that’s why Willow hated him, because the one thing she could never give her mother was proof on her face that she had come from her body, because Wilder had stolen it all.

‘What’s up?’ he asked her, then reached for a mug.

Willow crossed her arms, and then his eyes went wide when her lips moved. She had never voiced—ever in her life, as long as he could remember. Laughter, screams, but never words. His mother had put her foot down at even the slightest hint of speech therapy. Willow was Deaf—totally and completely from birth, and sign would be her language, and she would never have to accommodate a hearing person.

And to this moment, she never had.

‘Do-do?’

‘You can’t hear me at all, can you?’

He turned his face away and sighed, the feeling ragged in his throat.

She tapped his arm hard, and he looked over. ‘How long has it been since you lost it all?’

With a shrug, he poured his coffee and took two long drinks of the bitter liquid before he answered her. ‘I haven’t lost it all. I can still hear some, but it’s been getting worse over the last few weeks.’

‘Your eyes are dancing,’ she pointed out. ‘That happened after you got out, but I thought it was from the injury.’

Wilder shook his head. ‘The vertigo is bad today.’

She hooked a finger over her ear. ‘Where are your hearing aids?’

‘In my bag.’

‘Are you going to tell Mom how much you’ve lost?’

At that, he laughed hard enough he heard the sound, full and robust against the inside of his skull. ‘Fuck no. She won’t care. She’ll never care. She’s going to hate me for the rest of her life.’

Her eyes went soft and filled with a profound sort of grief before tears spilled. It was startling, and more so when she threw herself into his arms, and he was forced to wrap his own around her to keep from falling over. He was dizzy, but she was steady, and up to this moment, it had always been the other way around with them.

‘I hate that you left,’ she said after pulling back, swiping her hand under her nose. ‘I was so scared.’

Wilder frowned. ‘Of what?’

‘Scott,’ she spelled his name with a look of such utter vitriol, he found something inside him that was able to love her again—just for that. ‘He got out of jail so fast, and then he disappeared, and I thought he went looking for you.’

‘I’m not afraid of him,’ Wilder told her, fingers sharp, face even sharper.

Willow shook her head, then reached out and ran her thumb over the scar on his arm. ‘You could have died.’

And that was also true. The stabbing itself had come too close, and then the risk of infection after. Scott was let off easy for mental health—for him being unable to control his feelings, but Wilder knew that wasn’t the case. He was a sociopath. He saw Wilder as a possession, not a person. He wanted him—he had never loved him—and Wilder trying to leave had threatened his control.

It wasn’t a crime of passion. Scott was just evil, and Wilder had paid for it dearly.

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