SUMMER
THE RESTAURANT SYLVIE brings me to is small and quaint. Oh, and packed. It’s Saturday night, and everyone’s out, the sidewalks downtown crowded with people waiting to get into a restaurant or a bar. Sylvie glides into her chosen restaurant as if she owns the place, chatting with the hostess like they’re old friends, and obtains us a table within minutes.
“It helps when you know someone,” Sylvie tells me with a wink just before the hostess leads us to our table. The other people in the cramped lobby glare at us as we head into the dining area, pissed at us for jumping the line.
Sylvie is oblivious to their ire.
Once we’re seated, she tells me her favorite dishes, making recommendations based on what I tell her I like. She orders us strawberry lemonades and fried cheese for an appetizer, my mouth opening in protest when the two words fall from her lips. She silences me with a look.
“Trust me. It’s delicious.”
I’m sure. And I’ll gain five pounds alone from tonight’s dinner.
My mother’s words follow me everywhere I go in regards to food, especially in restaurants. Particularly ones that serve rich, calorie-laden dishes. My mother is so thin, she makes supermodels look fat. Her diet consists of prescription medication and alcohol—that’s pretty much it. She rarely eats. She used to be bulimic, she admitted that to me when I was
thirteen and eating everything in sight. During those heroin chic days when she was younger, she referenced them more than once.
Meaning she was quite on-trend in the mid-nineties.
She believed I showed signs of bulimia as well, but it turns out I was eating like crazy because of a growth spurt. I’m prone to weight gain. She told me the summer I was thirteen, when I was lazy and spent the long, hot days in my room, rarely going out. I need to watch what I eat and exercise. She was a food tyrant, monitoring everything I put in my mouth. Griping at me when she caught me eating junk food, which back then was often.
Now I find I can’t bring myself to eat bread or pasta without hearing her voice ring in my head, and that’s a horrible thing. I’m not fat, but I’ll never be as thin as Mother. Or Sylvie. She’s so skinny, I can see the blue veins in her pale, thin arms. Her clothes hang on her, as if she has no meat on her bones, and her face is so angular, her cheekbones are razor sharp. Her pointy little chin and that lush, startlingly pink mouth against her pale skin really stand out. She’s gorgeous, like Whit.
“You’re staring,” she tells me once the server leaves our table. I blink her back into focus. “I’m sorry. It’s just you’re so—”
“Thin?”
“No,” I deny, though it’s true. She’s thin as a rail. I could crack her in two. “You’re beautiful.”
“Oh.” She appears taken aback. And pleased by the compliment. “Thank you. I haven’t heard anyone use that word to describe me in a long time. Everyone’s always so concerned with my weight. I know I look like a skeleton. Mother called me a bag of bones before I came back to school. I’m on protein supplements, but they’re no use. I can’t keep any weight on.” She smiles. Glances around the room, as if she wants people to pay attention to her, but none of them are, which is fine by me. “Whit worries about me, but I told him there’s no point. I’m dying.”
My heart skips a beat at her casual mention of her brother. At the equally casual way she references her impending death. “I’m sure your family is very worried about you.”
“There’s no need. Like I said, I’m on the way out.” She laughs at my horrified expression. “What? It’s true! Death is something we all eventually have to face, Summer. I’m just having to face it a little sooner than most. And it’s okay. I’ll be lucky to make it to eighteen. Hopefully I’ll have had sex by then. Have a boy go down on me, at least. Are you a virgin?”
Her question stuns me silent for a moment. I think of who stole my virginity and frown. “No.”
“Oh, it was that bad? I’m sorry.” She leans over the table, her voice lowering. “I thought I wanted to save myself for the right person, but I’m afraid the right person won’t show up before my expiration date. Now I’m eager to get with whoever I can, just to get the deed over with. Really, I want to know what it’s like, to have someone else give me an orgasm.”
I kind of like how open she is. How honest. Sylvie is nothing like her brother.
“Don’t you want it to be with someone special?” That’s how I always felt before, when I was younger and incredibly naive. Until I was worn down and eventually gave in. A girl can protect her virtue for only so long.
“Trust me, there’s no one special in my life, or I’d be banging him nonstop by now.” The server stops by our table, delivering our drinks. They’re beautiful, the glasses full of clear squares of ice, the strawberry lemonade a perfect layer of yellow and red liquid, the rim of the glass covered with sparkling pink sugar. Sylvie takes the drink eagerly and sips from the straw, a satisfied noise leaving her once the server walks away. “Now this drink? It’s special. The boys I know? Not a one of them matters to me. Well, maybe one, but he fucks everyone else and puts me on a pedestal like I’m fragile and untouchable. He doesn’t see me in that way.” She hesitates for only a moment. “The fuckable way.”
Her casual use of the word fuck is surprising for such a delicate little girl like her, though I suppose I shouldn’t feel that way. She’s only a year younger than me. “Are you referring to Spencer?”
“He’s the only one who I’d let see me naked. Whit says none of his friends are good enough for me, and he’s probably right, but I don’t want someone good enough for me. I just—want someone. You know?” She coughs,
resting her fist in front of her mouth to contain it. “When you’re someone like me, life is meant to be lived. Right now. I can’t wait. It could all be over tomorrow.”
I want to ask what’s wrong with her, but I’m afraid that might be rude, and I don’t want to pry. Instead I let her rattle on, eagerly grasping onto every morsel she shares about her family. Her brother. It’s not enough, but it’ll do for now, and I can’t help but wonder where he’s at. What he could be doing. Maybe he’s sitting in his room, reading my journal.
I get angry at the mere thought, so I shove it away. It’s a Saturday night. I’m sure he’s not alone.
“Tell me about you,” Sylvie says once we’ve given our dinner orders and the plate of fried cheese is sitting on the table between us. She grabs one, dipping it into the thick marinara sauce before taking a big bite, the hot, stringy cheese staying connected before it snaps. “I know Jonas Weatherstone is your stepfather.”
“Was,” I correct her, taking a sip of the deliciously sweet yet tart lemonade.
“Yes. Was.” Her expression turns somber. “That fire was just awful. You’re lucky you weren’t there.”
“I was there,” I admit, her eyes going wide. “I just managed to escape. My mother saved me.” I duck my head, acting as if I’m overcome with emotion. And I suppose I am. With guilt. With anxiety. With worry. No one ever figured out what really happened, save for Mother. And she didn’t tell.
We’re both taking that secret to the grave.
“That’s so awful. And to lose your stepbrother too,” she continues. “When Jonas was still married to his first wife, they came to our house sometimes. Whit and Yates would play together when we were children.”
My stomach churns, thinking of them knowing each other. How they each know me.
Intimately.
“As he got older, he had a—reputation,” Sylvie continues. “Your stepbrother. I heard he was kicked out of a couple of schools for sexual assault.”
I nod, wiping my mouth of imaginary food. I haven’t eaten anything, my appetite completely leaving me.
“I suppose everything went to shit when his parents divorced. Same thing happened to our family,” she says, shrugging. Very c’est la vie of her. “Whit turned into a complete control freak when Father first left. He would get into these raging fights with him. It was terrible. All Lina and I could do was cry. We were all eventually sent to counseling.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t easy,” I murmur.
She picks up another piece of fried cheese, holding it with delicate fingers, tearing it into pieces and letting them fall onto her plate before she dips one into the red sauce. “It was a relief. When Daddy left, we could all breathe easier. Even Whit, though he’s loath to admit it. The problem with Whit is he’s cut from the same cloth as our father. He sees everything as black or white. There’s no gray. Right or wrong. Yes or no. Do it or don’t. He’s extremely stubborn and hard to get along with.”
She’s describing him perfectly. I can only nod my head in agreement.
Sylvie smiles, her gaze knowing. “You tricked me. I’m talking about myself again and you’ve barely said a word.”
“I don’t mind. I’m a good listener,” I tell her.
“But I want to know more about you.” She reaches across the table, her fingers dancing on top of my hand briefly before she pulls away. “It’s so exciting that you’re here. It’s always the same faces at Lancaster every year. I get bored so easily by them. The students. The teachers. The staff. That’s half the reason I become terribly sick, I swear. I get tired of seeing everyone on campus. I need more excitement in my life.”
“Like death?” I can’t help but ask.
Sylvie laughs. “Yes. Like death. It’s much more interesting, trust me. Now tell me about you. Don’t hold back. I want to know everything.”
“There’s really not much to tell. I don’t have any siblings.” Save Yates, and he doesn’t count. To think of him as my brother makes me want to vomit. “My father isn’t in my life. My mother and I have a strained relationship.”
Especially after the fire and the deaths and the reality that we’re all each other has left, which is not very reassuring to my mother. I suppose she hates me for what I did. But that makes us even because I hate her for what she did too.
Or more like what she didn’t do.
“You’ve dealt with death too, like me,” Sylvie says, her expression curious. “With the fire. Tell me what that was like, the night it happened.”
Unease slips through me. This is something I haven’t talked about since I spoke with the police. It’s a taboo subject between Mother and me. We’d rather forget it ever happened. “I don’t remember much,” I admit, my tone apologetic. “I woke up to a lot of smoke, and my mother dragging me out of the room.”
I remember everything that happened that night, right down to the finest detail. It’s just, I don’t want to tell her.
“Your mother is a hero,” Sylvie says, her voice full of awe. “She saved your life.”
I shrug, brushing it off. “She did what any mother would do in a situation like that.”
“Ha! I have a feeling my mother would let me burn,” Sylvie says bitterly. “She’d save Whit. Maybe Carolina.”
“She’d save all of her children,” I say, my voice soft as I reach out and lightly pat her hand.
Sylvie pulls her hand from beneath mine, making a dismissive gesture. “This is getting too serious. Let’s talk about something else. Oh, I know! Tell me about your trouble at Billington.” Her eyes light up, little flames dancing in their pale blue depths. “I’m not going to pretend I didn’t read your file when I hacked into the system, because I so did, and I’m
positively green with envy over the experiences you’ve had. I love a lurid good girl gone bad story. Spill it.”
The truth is so boring. I was the typical rebellious rich teen who acted out. It was the standard cry for help. The any attention is good attention type situation. I was a mess. Trying to escape the pressures at home, the pressures at school. Wanting to grow up too fast, too soon, yet needing my mommy because I was scared.
And of course, there was Yates. He was incessant. It started when I was thirteen and grew breasts. He wouldn’t stop staring at them. He walked in on me taking a shower, watching me through the glass door. Sometimes, just because I could, I’d let him stare. It would satisfy him and he’d leave me alone.
Until the need became too great. Eventually, he was in constant pursuit of me. Trying to get me alone. Trying to sneak into my room.
Mother was too wrapped up in her own problems—and her affair with Augustus Lancaster, one of the richest men in the country, if not the world
—to see what was happening right before her own eyes. In her own home. I’m still unsure if she realizes everything that happened between Yates and me. I tried to tell her once, but she began crying when I said Yates’s name.
So I stopped.
I clear my throat and decide to tell her about the other boy in my life at that time. “There was a boy.”
Sylvie’s expression becomes excited. “Of course. That’s how it always starts.”
“He was a year older. Gorgeous. Confident. Arrogant.” I think of Whit. He is all of those things and more. “With a hint of mean.”
“They’re the worst.”
“Awful,” I say in agreement. “He chose me out of everyone else, though, and I felt special. Wanted. Needed. He was bad—everything about him, my parents hated. He did drugs. Drank too much. I was only fourteen, and I
turned fifteen when we were together. He convinced me to try things, and I was perfectly willing.”
This is all true. There was a boy at school. A senior when I was a freshman, scandalous. Yates hated him, which made me love him even more. His name was Daniel. He taught me shot gunning—blowing smoke into each other’s mouths—and how to stay drunk at school all day while keeping your composure. He had persuasive hands and an easy way about him.
He was the distraction I was looking for at that time. He was sweet, kind of dumb. Also kind of mean, just as I told Sylvie.
“Like what?” Sylvie’s eyes are wide as moons.
“Drugs. Drinking. Sex.” I shrug, hoping she doesn’t ask for details. Knowing she will most likely ask.
“He’s the one you were caught with in the gym.”
I nod. We weren’t actually having sex, but we were close. “They expelled him. He was eighteen. I was fifteen. A minor.”
“Scandalous!” Sylvie covers her mouth with her fingers. “You were willing though, right?”
“Of course,” I snap, feeling defensive. With Daniel, I was always willing, yet he was the one who got in trouble. Who was threatened with jail time by Jonas and my mother.
When the very person who was practically assaulting me at every chance lived under their own roof—Jonas’ own son.
“You can’t call it rape when you enjoy it,” Yates told me once, after one of our intense encounters. “You want it. You want me.”
The guilt I carry is overwhelming. Suddenly, I rise from my seat, bumping my thighs into the table and causing everything on it to rattle.
“I need to use the restroom,” I say, quickly walking away without looking back. I don’t need to. Sylvie is probably staring after me in shock, wondering why I left so abruptly.
Unless you’ve experienced it, it’s hard to describe what it’s like to deal with haunting memories and their impact. They come out of nowhere, when you least expect them. Climbing up your throat, crawling over your skin, consuming you whole. They linger at the edge of your mind, poised to ruin everything, like my dinner with a new friend.
How can I be friends with Sylvie when her brother is Whit? The same Whit who now has my private journal because he stole it. He could go to the back of that journal and read those secret entries, uncovering exactly what happened between Yates and me—and what I did to make it stop.
I find the small restaurant bathroom at the back of the building and lock myself inside, leaning against the door as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look so young tonight, with my hair in French braids, no makeup, wearing a gray North Face hoodie, black leggings, and black and white Dior sneakers, much like what Sylvie is wearing.
We both look like kids. We are kids. But I feel old inside, jaded, and disgusted, having seen and done so much already.
Pushing away from the door, I wash my hands and splash cold water on my face. It brings some color back to my cheeks, and after drying off, I smooth my hair back and stand a little straighter. I remind myself of the girl I was two years ago—chasing dreams and running from nightmares.
I’m still that girl, though my dreams are gone and the nightmares are always close behind.
With a resolute sigh, I open the door to find two middle-aged women waiting in the hallway for the restroom. They glare at me with contempt, their eyes narrowed and lips curled. Judging me without knowing me. They likely hate me for my youth, which they cling to with their claw-like fake nails.
I return their glare, flipping one of my long braids over my shoulder and putting a bit of swagger in my step as I walk past them. I exit the short hallway, head back to the dining area, and spot Sylvie. But my eyes are drawn to someone sitting at a table on the opposite side of the room.
Whit Lancaster. Watching me.
I stop in the middle of the restaurant, dumbstruck by his presence. Our eyes lock. He smirks. I frown. He’s sitting with his friends, and a few girls are around him too, including Jane and Caitlyn. They flank him, laughing and touching him, their hands fluttering near him as if unsure where to land next. Jane settles her hand on his forearm, while Caitlyn rests her hand on his shoulder and leans in, whispering something into his ear. He doesn’t acknowledge her, as if he doesn’t even notice their presence.
His attention is solely on me, his face temporarily battered with a visible black eye he wears like a badge. No shame in Whit Lancaster’s game. If anyone is commenting on the fight he must’ve been in, no one is saying a word to him.
I tilt my head. He mirrors the gesture, turning away from Caitlyn as if trying to avoid her incessant chatter. I blink.
He blinks too.
Fine. I can play this game.
I part my lips slightly, curling my tongue at the corner, just a hint visible. I bite my lower lip, glancing away for a moment before looking back at him.
He licks his upper lip, his eyes gleaming with predatory intent.
This all happens in seconds, but it feels like minutes. An agonizing tease.
I hate him.
Seriously, I do.
Not caring that I’m the first to give in, I tear my gaze away from his and march over to Sylvie, taking my seat. I smile at her, noting her frown. “Sorry about that,” I say. “I really had to go.”
“It’s those strawberry lemonades. They make me pee almost immediately.” She accepts my lame excuse with a smile, tapping her mostly empty glass. “I ordered us another round.”
“Thank you.”
“Too bad they don’t have vodka in them.” She laughs. “I don’t drink much anymore,” I admit.
“Why not?”
“I don’t like losing control,” I answer.
“My brother says the same thing. Drinking, drugs—he’s not interested lately. He wants to stay in control at all times. But that’s so typical of Whit. He’s the ultimate control freak.”
Truer words were never spoken.
Sylvie rests her chin on her hand, studying me. “Do you like my brother?”
“No,” I say immediately, glancing to my right. He can see me perfectly. I wonder if he’s been aware of my presence in this restaurant since he walked in, while I’ve been oblivious.
Probably. I’m sure he’s been watching me, and I’m also sure I’ve looked absolutely ridiculous—laughing, drinking strawberry lemonade, dressed casually, minus the designer sneakers. I’m sure he prefers his girls pretty and perfect, sipping water and nibbling on lettuce, wearing dresses and no panties for easy access.
The perv.
Sylvie laughs. “I love your honesty. It’s so refreshing.”
“Are you surrounded by liars?” I ask.
“Mostly. People who’ll say anything to please me—I’ve dealt with them my entire life. It’s quite annoying. I’ve always wanted a friend who’s honest with me, who has an opinion instead of agreeing with me all the time.” Sylvie rolls her eyes. “Girls like that drive me crazy.”
“Same here,” I say truthfully, falling silent when the server arrives with our dinners.
We dig in once she leaves, and my appetite returns with a vengeance. I’m starving, devouring the pasta dish embarrassingly fast, along with plenty of bread, not caring if Whit is watching me stuff my face.
Forget the lettuce leaf. Bring on the pasta.
Sylvie matches me bite for bite, outdoing me with her appetite since she also had all that fried cheese. We eat until we’re both stuffed, resting our hands over our full bellies, moaning and groaning.
“I feel terrible,” I say.
“Same, but it was totally worth it,” she whimpers.
“You’re right.” I do my best to avoid looking in Whit’s direction, though it’s driving me crazy. I hope my refusal to look at him frustrates him. He deserves to think I don’t care that he’s here. I’d love to confront him, demand my journal back, but that’s not how I’ll handle this. Confrontation won’t work. I need to be sly. Cunning.
As sly and cunning as him.
The server drops off the check, and Sylvie hands over a heavy black credit card. “Let me pay for mine,” I say.
“No, my treat. You can get it next time,” Sylvie says with a faint smile.
I appreciate that she mentions a next time. I finally feel like I have a friend. Someone who won’t be intimidated by Whit or fall under his influence so easily.
As his sister, she can defy him. And so can I.
We’re waiting for the server to return with Sylvie’s credit card when I feel Whit’s presence—the air charges, and my head buzzes. Shadows fall over our table, and I look up to see Whit standing there, Spencer by his side. Chad is on the other side of Spence, with the girls behind them, giggling and tittering nervously, likely excited by the prospect of a confrontation.
Wouldn’t they love to know I had Whit’s dick in my mouth last night?
“Whit. Chad.” Sylvie smiles. “Spence.” She scowls at him, her expression reminiscent of her brother’s. “What brings you boys to this lovely establishment?”
I love that she didn’t acknowledge the girls at all.
“Hunger,” Chad says with a smile. Spencer scowls back, his hands in his jeans’ pockets.
Whit remains silent. His expression is cool, stoic. He won’t even glance my way.
“Have you met my friend?” Sylvie says jokingly, indicating me. They all know who I am, and she knows it. Maybe she’s trying to be nice, or at least get them to be polite. I hear a few murmured “yeahs,” though none of them actually look at me.
“Can’t say we’ve ever met before,” Whit says, turning to stare directly at me with an indifferent expression. Completely blank. As if he never had his mouth on me last night. As if I wasn’t the one he came all over, marking his territory.
“Whit,” Sylvie snaps, but he ignores her.
“What was your name again?” he asks me with a dismissive flick of his chin, his gaze roaming over me. Last night’s hunger is gone, replaced by his familiar cold stare. “Nice braids,” he says snidely. “You look like a child.”
I don’t think, just grab my leftover lemonade, stand, and throw it in his face. The drink splashes him and the girls behind him. They gasp, then start squealing.
“Fuck you,” I tell him between clenched teeth, gl
