“That’s awful.” My heart beats quicker, putting me in her place, imagining how it would feel to be treated like the guilty party when I was already in pain.
“It gets worse,” Ant says, looking miserable. “He sent her away because it was inconvenient for him to sever his business relationship with the man who hurt her. Can you imagine how low your morals are to put a corporation ahead of your daughter?”
My mind fills with Maddox, his bottomless well of grief and anger. How deeply he blames himself for not saving his sister. The haunted expression that came into his eyes whenever he spoke her name. The pain in his voice when he confessed how she’d screamed at him.
Nothing but a meaningless burst of vitriol, fuelled by her addiction. Something they could have repaired and healed the same as Ant and me… if only she’d lived.
“You want to watch a comedy or something?” He flashes a lopsided grin at me, waggling his phone. “For some strange reason, I’ve developed a really low mood.”
“Did anything like that ever happen to you?”
“Like wh—” he recoils. “No! I was just bog-standard scared and lonely with no idea of where my life was headed and chewing my tongue every time I tried to talk to a girl.”
“Right,” I laugh. “Bog-standard. And did it help you talk to girls?”
“Obviously.” He pats out a drum beat on his chest. “Mr Smooth. That’s me.”
I frown, thinking back to our phone call. “When you said Addie did some messed up shit with Maddox, what did you mean?”
He shifts in the seat, putting a hand to his face, looking disturbed. “She wasn’t well, Evie. Nothing she did was intentional. There were just so many things twisted in her head.”
A terrible thought occurs, and I ask it, just so I can push it away. “Did she abuse him? The way someone abused her.”
Ant’s face is miserable as he nods. “I don’t know many details but along those lines.”
My heart shrinks in my chest, not wanting to believe anything my brother says. But of the two of us, I’m the one who struggles with expressing the truth. I lie and hide and pretend everything’s absolutely fine because it’s so much simpler than making waves.
Ant is the one who deals with things head on.
I try to think how Maddox, a boy who already spends half his time sex-repulsed, could fit such a massive chunk of trauma into his psyche. But of course, he hasn’t. That’s why it spills out from around his edges, twisting his smallest sexual impulses into a massive tug of war.
Later that night, I cry hot tears of misery, wishing I could be there for him, talk things through, listen. Our estrangement hurts even worse with this new knowledge.
A dozen times during the night I think of him using a shattered piece of vase to cut into his wrist and want to call him, text him, tell him I’m thinking of him. That even if he hates my guts for eternity, if he wants me, I’ll stand by his side.
At school, the next day goes the same way. I’m ostracised in the classroom and in the quad. Even some of the teachers seem wary about interacting with me.
Obviously, I’m not in the loop to hear, but I’m sure the royal gossip columnists are working at full speed, detailing my every fault.
By the end of the week, I settle into the routine. Even without company, being back at school is its own sweet pleasure. Such great tracts of my life were spent without it that just sitting in a lesson, seeing the hardworking teachers whose main purpose is tohelp me learnis enough to keep me on track.
The second week takes a nastier turn. A few bumps happen in the corridors, one hard enough to knock my books to the ground. I have to time going to the bathroom to avoid the cruel taunts that seem set to become commonplace.
On Thursday, I’m sitting at a bench by myself, eating the sandwich I bought from home. The other half sits on the table in front of me and a boy swipes it onto the ground as he walks past.
I bend to pick it up, biting my cheek to hold back any retaliation. When I straighten, Zane sits opposite me. I cut my eyes across to Maddox and see he looks as puzzled by the development as I am.
“What’s your class schedule after lunch?”
“History then a study period.”
“You like history?”
I wrinkle my nose. “I fucking hate it.”
He breaks into a wide smile. “Good. Skip it and come to the clubhouse.” He slides a twenty to me. “This is for your lunch.”
“Oh, I’m good.”
