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But, for now, there’s not much I can do about any of it. Except piss her off. Which is what I do. “No one looks bad for him but you.”
I walk past her through the door to the outside lawn, ignoring her screams of indignation. She can be outraged all she wants; it’s the truth.
My feet carry me across the grassy, lit path as I search for clues about which direction Casey went. Intuition pulls me toward the gazebo, and just as I expected, I find her curled, with her sunflower-printed skirt pulled over her legs and her face buried in her knees. Her long blond hair hangs in thick waves over her shoulders and her face, doing little to disguise the heaving of her body as she whimpers.
I shove my hands in my pockets and move to sit next to her on the bench. My shoulder bumps hers playfully, hoping to ease some of her tension. “Long time no see, Sunflower.” It has been a while. I haven’t been home in a few weeks, and if business continues going down my projected path, it might be longer before the next visit.
“G-go away,” she sniffles without looking up.
“I can’t do that when my favorite girl is sad.”
Her little blond head shakes. “I’m not your favorite girl. I’m no one’s favorite.”
“Now, you knowthatis not true.” I swing my arm over her shoulder, tugging her to my side. “And neither is anything that narcissistic bitch said.”
She turns her head, her sapphire eyes still pooling with unshed tears. “Isn’t it, though? I never get the leads when I dance. No matter how hard I work, it’s never enough. And I-I…” Her words trail off as her cheeks blush furiously. “I kind of am built like a boy.”
My laugh startles her, making her cheeks flush brighter. “Trust me, Sunflower, you aren’t built like a boy. But even if you were, some guys like that.”
“You don’t.” Her pretty pink mouth twists adorably. Then she tugs her bottom lip between her teeth.
My brows dip as I reach, pulling it away. “What makes you say that?”
Her shoulders lift with a shrug. “I saw you with that girl. Jagger, too. He was hot and heavy with some big-chested blonde in a corner.”
“You don’t worry about guys like my brother and me. We aren’t the kind of guys you want, Sunflower.”
Her lips pull between her teeth again as she gets closer. Warning bells sound off in my brain as her small breasts press against my arm. “But what if I want you to be?”
Before my short-circuiting brain can grasp what she means, her lips are on mine. And for a brief second, I forget who they’re attached to.
Then, the alarm bells turn to sirens.
I shove her away, dragging a hand over my mouth, then ripping it through my hair. “What the hell, Casey?”
Her bright, oceanic pools get wide as mortification distorts her face, staining her cheeks. Regret lashes through me for my harsh reaction, but she’s on her feet, running away before I can say a word.
If someone told me my sixteen-year-old stepsister would kiss me tonight, I would’ve laughed.
Unfortunately, the kiss and all the reasons it was wrong are the least of my worries.
Not when the real problem is that it was harder to stop than it should have been.
Casey
FOUR YEARS LATER
Sweat beads at my temples, but I feel like I’m freezing. My nose tingles, and my lips are numb, but it’s not because of the sharp nails digging into my face. I see the owner’s lips moving, but I can’t hear anything she says. I can’t even see her through my blurred vision.
My heart pulses in my ears, thumping so loud I wonder if everyone can hear it. I focus on those beats, counting them, trying to breathe through my panic.
It feels like every pair of eyes is on us, watching as my mother calls me a traitorous, wretched bitch. Blaming me for everything she hates about herself. Telling me my presence here is a betrayal of all her sacrifices.
Even though the anxiety has stolen my sight and hearing, every word burrows deeper. The venomous poison burns through my veins, making its home in my marrow. Each jab is another dagger to my heart, cutting away at my psyche, tearing chunks of my flesh until all that is left is a walking, talking corpse.
“Casey, are you okay?” The sound of my best friend’s voice cuts through the chaos of my mind. My head bobs more from instinct—a learned habit developed from years of hiding the truth. She says something else, but my dad’s name is all I understand.
He can’t see me like this. If he does, he will know somethingis wrong, and I’m not sure there is a way to protect him from the truth when it’s right in front of him. He doesn’t know about how my mother treats me, and I never want him to find out. My suffering isn’t his fault nor his burden to bear. Not when he’s suffered himself.
