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Shiloh, on the other hand, apparently spends her meager salary on all manner of pointless collectibles. Tiny ornaments in the shapes of mushrooms and pumpkins and frogs, alongside dishes of tangled jewelry, are strewn across every available surface. Careful not to nudge anything out of place, I yank open a drawer, raising an eyebrow at the explosion of haphazard lace and cotton that greets me.
Clearly not in my right mind, I start tossing the contents onto the bed behind me, rifling through it all in search of fuck knows what. Some sneering voice in the back of my head tells me Shiloh could be exactly the kind of pathetic excuse for a human who would keep a journal. That would truly be the jackpot–a window straight into her fragile little soul.
I scour the rest of the room, growing increasingly frustrated as I come up empty-handed. If my little Shy Girl does spill her innermost thoughts onto paper, she doesn’t keep the evidence in this room.
“Players onlylove youwhen they’re playing,” Shiloh’s voice crescendos in the shower, her ghastly rendition ofDreamsreaching its climax. I can’t tell how long this impromptu performance is going to last. I’m already pushing my luck by daring to hang around while nothing more than a slightly ajar door separates the two of us. But as I turn to go, my gaze catches on the scattered underwear I’ve left on top of her sheets. Almost against my own will, I find myself reaching out, fingers ghosting over the delicate fabric.
I lift a scrap of black lace, an image swirling into sharp focus of Shiloh peeling the thong down her silky, pale legs. Heat rushes through me, a confused mix of desire and revulsion. I drop the underwear like it’s coated in acid, stumbling back from the bed.
The shower squeaks off abruptly, the sudden silence yanking me out of my daze. Cursing under my breath, I dart for the door, pausing only for a split second to sweep my gaze over the room one last time. A monument to my absolute failure to be discreet, Shiloh’s bedroom is a mess. Drawers hang open, ornaments have been tipped on their sides, an embarrassing contrast to my usual ruthless precision.
Fuck it. Let her wonder what the hell happened here. Let her feel just as unsettled as I do right now.
I hurry from the room and down the stairs before Shiloh emerges from her bathroom, her resumed humming suggesting that she’s taking her sweet ass time getting ready for bed. The cool night air hits me like a slap this time, clearing some of the fog from my head. I stalk towards my car, feeling uncomfortably rattled.
Thiswon’tdo. I say I’m sticking around with the sole intention of messing with Shiloh’s peace. So why the fuck do I feel like my own composure is already cracking apart?
5
SHILOH
I stepout of the bathroom, grateful to be a little steadier on my feet. Lord knows it would be just my luck to drunkenly slip in the shower and meet an early death just when I started feeling a little better about existing. However, I freeze mid-stride, my breath catching in my throat as the slightly blurry scene in my bedroom suddenly comes into focus.
Most of the underwear I own is strewn across my bed, various drawers hang half open, and the usually organized chaos of my surfaces appear in an unfamiliar disarray. Blood pounds in my ears as I slowly creep forward, my fingers trembling when I reach out to pick up a pair of lace panties.
Real. This is real. I’m not drunkenly hallucinating right now.
“What the fuck?” I mutter to myself, before calling out louder. “Hello? Is anyone there?” My voice cracks a little on the final question. Nothing but silence answers me, of course. I don’t know why I would expect an intruder to announce themselves like a fucking amateur. The apparent stillness throughout the house does nothing to quell the panic in my chest. I head to mycloset, throwing open the doors and pushing the hangers aside in one anxious swipe.
Empty.
I drop to my knees next, peering under the bed in search of a lurking monster. I find nothing there besides dust bunnies and a lone sock. With a relieved sort of huff, I clamber to my feet again, my gaze snapping to the windows. Both locked, just as I left them.
Only when I’ve stood in silence for a solid five minutes, ears straining for any sound throughout the rest of the house, does the hammering within my ribcage begin to slow. I close my eyes on a deep inhale, trying to piece together the fuzzy memories of when I got home. Just seconds later, I’m forced to peel them back open again, the Earth seeming to tilt while an ungodly volume of alcohol still flows through my veins.
“Oh fuck,” I sputter, throwing my arms out to steady the violent swaying. A slightly hysterical laugh bursts from my lips as I take in the carnage of my upturned bedroom again. “I must be way more drunk than I thought.”
Assuming I’m the culprit for creating such a mess in a wasted haze, I wordlessly curse myself as I go about tidying everything back into its right place. With each item I put away, the anxious knot in my stomach loosens a bit.
By the timeI climb into bed, a heavy exhaustion has settled deep in my bones, though my mind is still relentlessly spinning. I pull the covers up to my chin, fighting back the nausea that threatens an entirely different kind of mess. Clearly not about to fall asleep any time soon, I reach across to my nightstand and grab myphone. Before I even realize what I’m doing, my fingers move on autopilot, typing in my code and pulling up Instagram.
It only takes a couple more clicks before Dominic’s profile fills the screen, a window into a world so far removed from mine, it might as well be on another planet. I scroll, transfixed, each passing image a carefully curated glimpse into a life of luxury.
Here I am on a yacht, the Mediterranean sparkling behind me.
Here I am at some glitzy event, surrounded by women who probably model for Vogue.
Here’s the view from my fancy-shmancy corner office where lowly failures aren’t permitted to tread.
Every photo is a cutting reminder of the vast chasm between us, of everything he prioritizes over his own family–over the life he could’ve had in Avalon if he didn’t consider us all so far beneath him. I stop furiously scrolling when the bitter resentment starts to taste a little too much like rising bile. My thumb is left hovering over a picture of Dom in a tailored suit, leaning against a sleek sports car. The corner of his mouth is lifted in that infuriating smirk he seems to wear all too well.
“Ugh,” I groan, tossing my phone aside. I grab my pillow and slam it over my head, as if I might be able to smother the rage he evokes from me.
But in the darkness behind my eyelids, I can’t escape the images that flow past in a taunting carousel. Dominic’s life of glamor and excess, so starkly contrasted with my own modest existence. It’s not even that I’m jealous of the money and the success.I’m not. I know damn well that I could do whatever I wanted with my life if I chose to leave Avalon.
Ichoseto stay, pathetically clinging to a futile dream that my family would one day appreciate me for choosing them. And yet, it seems like the more years I spend trying to stay close to them, the further they drift away.
My dad and Dom’s mom, Vivienne, had two more kids after I left for college, and now all their time is spent raising their second-chance family. I consider it a luxury if they even ask to have dinner together on my birthday.
