Bridget’s voice drifts to us, weak and uncertain. “Easton, wait. Let’s talk. We can smooth this over.”
“We can’t all be experts at brushing things under the rug,” Vincent spits.
I don’t hear her defense, but Isaac’s quick to jump in and try to cool the flames.
Their voices fade when Easton steps close. His white button-down shirt grazes the front of my dress, and his body heat radiates through the material like a furnace, swallowing me whole. Eyes darkening, he reaches an arm around me for the door handle.
My ribs constrict, and a small, shallow breath escapes.
“Maybe she’s right,” I breathe. “Maybe you should stay.”
His eyes dip to my mouth, words bleak. “Or maybe I can’t take any more bullshit.”
He pulls the door open behind me, and I stumble forward a step. Before my body can meet his, he steadies me by a hand on my waist and moves around me.
A wide-eyed Whitney waits on the other side of the door.
Having no reason to stay, I follow him out. He brushes Whitney’s touch off his arm, but she continues to follow after him.
“Was all that because of Isaac and Thomas?”
“Party’s over, Whit,” he grumbles. “Go home.”
Whitney watches Easton disappear up the stairs before she turns to me.
Her eyes narrow. “I find it interesting you’re always present when things go wrong.”
I stare at her. “I find it interesting you’re still here when you’re clearly not welcome.”
Still shaken, I barely register her inhaled breath of outrage as I walk past her and slowly make my way up the staircase. My feet are numb, eachclick, click, clickof my heels sounding faraway.
Damaged.
Dirty.
Child.
To hear those words aloud was painful, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the look on Easton’s face. The broken expression won’t leave my head, and the ache in his eyes settles heavily on my heart.
As a child, I wished my father would tell me I wasn’t his. That my real father was out there somewhere, looking for me, and it was only a matter of time before he took me away. But at least I was granted transparency. I knew my father didn’t love me, and I knew my mother loved me so much she held me while black and blue.
My steps slow as I approach his bedroom door, which lays open a crack. Carefully, I push it open. He sits on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his thighs and head hanging low. Where my room is white, his is chestnut, both staged by the professional his mother hired. The grand, pompous decor defies everything he is. Like me, Easton is a stranger in his own room.
And he looks so alone.
So lost.
Lost.
Lost.
Lost.
A reflection of myself.
With a swallow, I rest my head on the doorframe and shut my eyes.
“Why can’t I come, Mommy? I want to come.” I don’t want to whine, but sometimes I can’t help it.
