He’s quiet.
“I’ll be dead before I graduate.”
His thumb presses against the seam of my lips, effectively shutting me up. “Stop saying shit like that. You’re not dying, Syl.”
“Believe what you want.” I know the truth, is what I want to add, but I don’t.
“We’re all dying, but that’s a long way out. You’re only fifteen.”
“And here you are, lying in bed with me, trying to feel me up.” I’m teasing, desperate to change the direction of our conversation.
His mouth lifts in a crooked smile. “You like it.”
“Too much,” I readily agree, leaning into him, my mouth on his, but he presses his hand on my shoulder, stopping me.
“Just—don’t talk about the dying stuff all the time. Freaks me out,” he says, his voice soft.
I stare at him, hating that he wants to take that away from me. It’s the only thing that gets me through it. Making light of my situation. It’s either I joke about it or drown in my worries every time I’m alone, which is far too often.
“You’re not dying,” he continues, repeating himself. “I know you’re not. The doctors will figure out what’s wrong with you and they’ll fix the problem. Your mom is trying her best.”
I want to laugh. Trying her best, indeed.
To kill me.
There’s no more laughing or arguing or protesting. Instead, I kiss him, drowning in his taste, the stroke of his tongue, the sensation of his hands sliding up and down my body. I lose myself in him, knowing that I’ll find myself soon enough.
And I’ll be miserable all over again.
TWENTY-FIVE
SPENCER
“This is very…”I glance around at the terrace off my apartment, at a loss of words to describe how completely Sylvie transformed the space.
“Feminine? Elegant?” Sylvie supplies hopefully.
“Pink,” I say lamely, earning an eye roll from my…
Girlfriend? Is that what I should call Sylvie? That feels too informal, too simple. She’s not just my girlfriend. She’s the woman I love. The woman I want to protect from everyone else in the world, though she’s not as hopeless as she used to be when she was a teenager.
Though was she ever hopeless? Or was all of that an act?
“Pink and beautiful.” She scans the terrace, her eyes lighting up with pleasure. There’s a long table in the center of the space, set to perfection with delicate floral plates and matching teacups and saucers. Lush flowers and greenery line the center of the table, and each plate is covered with a strip of pink velvet ribbon engraved with a guest’s name. There’s another table off to the side, laden with a variety of desserts too beautiful to eat, and there’s a makeshift bar set close to the balcony, two men standing behind it as they catalogue what liquor they’ve brought.
“I thought this was a tea party,” I say as my gaze settles on the bar.
“With alcohol, of course.” She sends me a look. “Monty wouldn’t come unless I promised there would be liquor.”
“Is that a smart idea?” I lift my brows.
“It’s a small party. Hardly anyone is invited. I don’t want trouble. Just my friends and the family that I love. No one else.”
“Is your father coming?”
Sylvie nods, her blue eyes wide. “I couldn’t not invite him.”
“You didn’t invite your mother,” I point out.