Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
She stands, and before I can stop her, she’s waving at Lachlan, beckoning him over with a little flourish. “Lachlan!” she calls, loud enough for half the room to hear. “Over here!”
Lachlan looks over, freezes, then moves toward us, a faint smile on his lips. He looks at Brenda, then at me, then back at her. There’s a beat of silence, just a little too long, and then Brenda wraps him in a hug, her head coming to his shoulder.
“You look great, little bro,” she says, and I see his eyes close, just for a second. Why is she calling him “bro”? I realize that some men refer to other men as “bros,” but it seems odd coming from my mom.
But Lachlan doesn’t look surprised.
“Thank you,” he says, but his voice is different—soft, and almost predatory. “You look good too, sis.”
Brenda steps back, hands on his arms, and then turns to me with a huge smile. “This is my younger brother, Stella. Your uncle, sort of, but it’s all very complicated. Lachlan is the best person in the world and is the perfect person to be a pastor at your church. You’re the junior pastor, right?”
I look at Lachlan, my mouth dry.
He looks back, his jaw tight, eyes unreadable.
“Yes,” he manages in a tight voice. “I started last year. I assist Pastor Pam.”
“Well, isn’t that wild?” Brenda says, delighted. “What a small world!”
I hear the words, but they don’t make sense, not at first. Then the meaning sinks in, slow and sickening.
Lachlan is my uncle. My mother’s brother, though I didn’t know it, and obviously neither did he.
I can’t breathe. I can’t even move.
The noise of the room fades, the quartet in the corner nothing but a phantom. The only sound is the clink of my champagne flute as I set it down, careful not to break it.
Hunter is watching me from across the room, and his face is perfectly blank. He likely has no idea what’s going on, but can sense danger. My father is watching too, his expression calm, like he’s been waiting for this moment all night.
I stare at the gorgeous blond man I’ve been fucking for months, and I want to scream, or run, or just disappear into the dark space under the table.
Instead, I sit there, numb, as Brenda wraps an arm around my shoulders and laughs, and the world keeps spinning, oblivious to the earthquake at this table.
The glass on the table rings with the force of my hand, but no one hears it except me.
21
THE FALL-OUT
Stella
There’s a centrifugal force in a ballroom, something about the way chandeliers force light into the crowd that makes everyone look blurred around the edges except the ones you’re programmed to see. Me, I’m a statue at the perimeter, staked like a hunting decoy in black velvet, hands numb around the stalk of a glass I don’t remember picking up. The champagne inside is warm. The rim leaves a cold sweat on my upper lip.
Across the room, Hunter signals with a look that is “are you okay?” and “one signal, and I’ll come.” His jaw is set and the line of his shoulders telegraphs possession. He stands slightly apart from the others, as if the air pressure around him is higher, as if he might break something by accident. He doesn’t notice the passing donors or the scent of lilies and burned wax; he only sees me. I don’t know how to communicate with him except in gritted teeth and body language. There is no language for this, not in front of two hundred pairs of eyes and especially not in front of my own mother.
I’ve been fucking my uncle. Lachlan is my mom’s long-lost brother. How is this possible?
The champagne flute tilts, almost off balance. But I’m not off balance. I am perfectly, terribly balanced, yet the golden liquid almost slips to the floor.
Meanwhile, Lachlan stands next to Brenda, posture so neutral it hurts to look at him. His lips are compressed, the shape of the clerical collar suddenly less adornment and more executioner’s rope. He has one hand at the small of my mother’s back. The touch is cousin to violence, not for what it does but for what it refrains from doing. He’s tall, but Brenda is tall too, and their heads incline together, gold and gold. They look related, but only in the way you might see echoes of the same storm in different parts of the sky.
Brenda beams, her smile bright and almost childish, oblivious to the knife she’s just jammed in my social spinal cord. She’s got this way of acting as if everything she says is a compliment, even when it’s the sort of thing that would get you punched in a different crowd.
I don’t breathe until she pulls me in, one hand on my bare arm, her diamond rings biting the skin. “I know, right?” she stage-whispers. “Small world.” To her, this is a funny anecdote, a conversation starter for next year’s brunches. She is not aware that she’s detonated a grenade under my life. Or maybe she is, and she likes the sound.