“She’s still a widow in the public eye,” I remind him. “We have to consider that.”
“Please. That marriage barely happened. And she was forced to do it.”
“By your mother.”
Another sigh leaves my friend and he slowly shakes his head. “My mother needs help. Something is wrong with her, and she doesn’t seem to be getting any better.”
“She’s obsessed with Sylvie.” I saw the text messages from her mom on the old phone—we were able to look up the messages on her iCloud. They weren’t normal. Not even close. “In an unhealthy manner.”
“That’s a polite way of phrasing that our mother has lost her damn mind.” Whit grabs his glass and drains it. “I’ll speak to her.”
“Really?” I arch a brow.
He nods. “I don’t know any other way to broach the subject besides being upfront with it. The woman needs to face facts—what she’s done to Sylvie throughout the years isn’t right. My mother has always basked in attention, and my father rarely gave it to her. As if he knew she thrived on it, and he didn’t want to see her thrive.”
Their marriage was a wreck, but I don’t bother saying it. Whit already knows.
“I’m wondering if she used Sylvie’s so-called illness as a way to gain attention. From my father, the family, doctors. I don’t know. Clearly, she needs help. A therapist. A licensed psychiatrist, whatever. Perhaps she needs to be put on medication.”
“All of that should be considered,” I say.
“I agree.” He studies me for a moment. “And what about Sylvie? Is she all fucked up over this still? Does she need to see a therapist? Be put on medication?”
“Probably,” I say. “Though I don’t want to answer for her.”
“Something to talk over with her. I know she’s been in therapy before. And she’s also taken gobs of pills throughout the years. A variety of medications that never seemed to help.”
“I don’t think it’s easy, being Sylvie Lancaster,” I point out. “She struggles with that most of all.”
The wistful expression on Whit’s face is reassuring. It means he cares about his sister. “I know. It’s not easy being a Lancaster in general.”
“The rich have problems too,” I say, lifting my glass in his direction.
He lifts his empty glass, clinking it against mine. “Indeed.”
TWENTY-NINE
SYLVIE
It’s beenweeks since the tea party. Since my mother appeared uninvited and scared the crap out of me. I’ve been hiding out in Spencer’s apartment ever since, only accompanying him when we go out for meals, and even then, we usually get takeout and end up staying home. If someone wants to see me, they have to come to the apartment.
I don’t trust going out on my own. She knows where I’m at. She could be lingering, hiding nearby as I leave the building, anxious to pounce the moment I’m far enough from the doormen and anyone else who could potentially rescue me.
It’s weird, not trusting the person you used to depend on the most. I thought I’d already processed my feelings about it, but I guess I haven’t fully. I’ve made an appointment with a new therapist, and I hope it works out. It’s hard to find someone you can click with, who you feel comfortable enough to share all the vulnerable feelings you rarely discuss with anyone else.
The one person I trust more than anyone else is Spencer. He’s stayed true throughout all the years. By my side, loyal and supportive. He gives his love to me unconditionally, and I don’t know what I’d do without him.
I’m starting to become too dependent, but I don’t care. I’m in love with him. He’s in love with me.
Nothing can keep us apart.
The sex is phenomenal too. Not that I can compare it to anyone else, since he’s basically the only man I’ve ever been with, but it’s so good. He knows exactly what I want, when I want it. He can be tender and sweet, or growly and a little rough. Those are my favorite moments, when he acts out of control and does things to me that I never expected.
We’re lying in bed after a particularly passionate moment together, the two of us flat on our backs, panting as we stare up at the ceiling. It’s hot outside, summer having showed up and made everything outside muggy and miserable.
Inside, I’m muggy right now, though I’m definitely not miserable. But my bare skin is sticky with sweat and my hair is clinging to the back of my neck. Fingers trail down my arm, light enough to make me shiver, and when I glance to my left, I find Spencer already watching me.
“You all right?”