Picture Perfect - Page 169

Gen’s silhouette appears in the doorway, her presence tentative, as if she’s crossing into forbidden territory. “Hey, Addy,” she murmurs, her voice soft but laced with something that sounds like hope. “We’ve got some color choices here for—”

“Doesn’t matter.” My words cut through the room, sharper than I intend them to be. I don’t want to decide on colors or fabrics or whatever other decisions are being made without me. Not when every choice feels like an illusion of control.

Saint’s shadow falls next, his figure blocking out the warm sliver of sunlight as he stands by my bed. “Princess—”

“Please,” I whisper, turning away from him and pulling the sheets up over my shoulder. The action is a shield, a thin barrier against the world that constantly demands more of me than I’m willing to give.

There’s a gentle touch, fingers grazing my arm, and I know it’s Dre even before he speaks. “Please, Snowflake. We just want to talk.”

“Can’t.” The word is barely audible, choked out as I press my face into the pillow. They don’t understand. How could they? They pried open my life like it was their own personal treasure chest, rifling through my most intimate details. And for what?

Chess doesn’t attempt to touch me, but I feel his gaze, heavy with concern. “It’s not what you think, Addy,” he starts, his tone uncharacteristically solemn. “We thought—”

“Thought wrong.” It’s all I can manage. The betrayal sits in my chest, a stone weight that refuses to erode. They saw the scars, the walls I had built, and still, they chose to dig deeper, searching for demons in a garden they had no right to cultivate.

I hear their collective sigh, a symphony of frustration and regret that plays on without an audience. They hover, these boys who have stormed into my life with the subtlety of a hurricane, but I am the eye, calm and detached, unwilling to be swept up in their storm any longer.

“Let her rest,” Gen’s voice commands softly from the doorway, and I can almost picture the solemn nods that follow. The door clicks shut, leaving me alone with my thoughts, which are louder and more insistent than any conversation they wish to have.

Gen’s still there when I’m ready to talk again. I roll back to face her. She doesn’t look annoyed or angry, she just looks sad for me.

“So,” she leans forward like we’re sharing a secret, “what do you want to do with your newfound freedom?”

I lick my lips, tasting the remnants of captivity, of days spent with no food and no water. “Cake,” I say, and then, as if the word has unlocked something frivolous within me, “And french fries. Oh—and maybe a milkshake.”

“Done.” Gen’s lips twitch upward, a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She knows there’s more at stake here than indulgent treats.

The first taste of air outside the confines of these oppressive walls is sweet, a hint of freedom that I didn’t realize I was craving. My legs are unsteady, but I’m pushing through.

I’m wearing sweats. I haven’t worn sweats since I was a foster kid. These are infinitely more expensive, but that’s not really the point. It feels strange and freeing and panic-inducing all at once.

But I’m too sore to consider wearing anything else.

“Ready?” Gen’s voice pulls me back from the edge of the world I’m still afraid to explore. She eyes me suspiciously, like she’s not sure I’ll make it down those stairs. Well, that makes two of us.

I stare at them, start to take a step and then change my mind. I lower myself down to my ass and start slowly scooting step-by-step. Gen cackles, her voice echoing off the walls. Then she shakes her head and joins me as we boot scoot all the way down to the foyer.

The boys are waiting but I don’t acknowledge them. I wave them off when they try to help me out to the car. Gen and I get the front seats, shoving all three of the oversized assholes into the backseat together.

The diner is a slice of Americana, all checkered floors and neon lights, and it feels like stepping onto a movie set. It’s an illusion of normalcy I’m not sure I’m ready for, but the smell of grease and sugar is a siren call I can’t ignore.

We slide into a booth, the same one the boys always claim, and I order with abandon, not caring about the curious glances from Saint, Dre, and Chess. They’re a silent trio of shadows, their concern hanging over the table like a storm cloud.

“Everything’s been arranged,” Gen says, pulling me out of the haze of anticipation for the feast before me. “The wedding will happen tomorrow morning.”

I nod, but it’s automatic, the gesture empty of the excitement such news should evoke. The word ‘wedding’ feels foreign on my tongue, an alien concept forced upon me by circumstances beyond my control.

Gen leans in, her face etched with a severity that belies her usual stoic demeanor. “Addy,” she murmurs, and I can hear the hesitancy in her voice, “they know they fucked up. They—well, they really fucked up. And they know it.”

It’s not a confession, it’s a plea for absolution that I’m not ready to grant. But the raw honesty in her tone gives me pause.

“Okay?” My voice is flat, my defenses still up, even as part of me yearns to understand, to forgive.

“Please.” It’s a whisper, almost lost amidst the clatter of the diner. “Just…give them a chance to explain. They’re…they’re not handling the silence well.”

I look at her, really look, and see the remorse that’s etched into the lines of her face. And for a moment, just a fleeting second, I consider what it would mean to listen, to open my heart once more to the possibility of trust.

“Maybe,” I say, and it’s not a promise, just an acknowledgment of the olive branch she’s extending on their behalf. I wonder if they asked her to talk to me. I don’t care. I don’t want to worry about them right now.