Page 21 of Sins (The Sins Trilogy 1)
Chapter Seven
Anthony
I spend the entire morning at the gym and grab a sandwich before going home. I’d like to stay out longer, but there are only so many weights you can lift, and only so many things to do in a town as small as Tempérane. The movie theater shut down a couple years ago, and the few coffee shops seem uninspired after Europe. I’m too old to hang out at the mall.
Not to mention the attention I draw just by being who I am. People’s curious gazes weigh me down the entire time I’m out. None of them approach, of course. After a while, I feel like yelling, “What? Just say what you want to say!”
But I don’t. It would embarrass Mother, and people would make sure she heard. So I go home.
As I walk out of the garage, gym bag slung over one shoulder, I come close to running smack into Mrs. Wentworth. She’s leaving the house, her strides short and tense. There is a palpable indignation around her, like a cat popped on its nose with a rolled-up newspaper.
She stops just short of a collision, then pulls her shoulders back, chin jutting forward aggressively. Her squinty eyes glare into mine as she spits, “Animal.”
My gut tightens. I deserve the epithet…but not from her. Then I remember Caleb.
“So, did the little weasel go crying to his mama? I hit him a lot less than I should have.”
Her cheeks turn bright red, and she straightens her spine further, her mouth tight. I wait, wondering what she’ll say to defend her wannabe rapist son.
“Murderer.”
The word spears my heart, and I can’t draw in air for the searing pain. She smirks and strides off.
I can’t move. It’s all I can do to stand there, shaking with shame, anger and grief. Mrs. Wentworth is one of the few people who know the real reason my parents sent me away.
It was a mistake—an accident! I’m not a murderer!
The protest sticks in my throat like it always does as my mind conjures up all the ways I could’ve prevented it. Guilt and shame over my failure keep me rooted to the spot, unmoving, until one of our gardeners walks by and says hello.
I manage a thick-voiced greeting, then hurry inside, my eyes unseeing. The air-conditioned coolness gives me goosebumps.
“Tony?”
I blink, focus, and see Ivy peering at me. Her eyes are clear, no hint of yesterday’s drinking, and she looks as fresh as a hothouse rosebud. Her aquamarine dress is modest, but shows hints of the soft curves and swells underneath.
“Ivy.”
As I say her name, Father’s warning reverberates through my head. I can’t stay too close to her. Everything should be about making Mother happy. Giving her a reason to forgive me. Making what’s left of my family whole again.
“Excuse me,” I say in a cold but civil tone, and go to my room, my strides long and rapid.
“Tony!” Ivy calls out.
I don’t look back. I can’t.
The second I’m in my room, I dump the gym bag and go to the en suite bathroom to splash cold water on my face. My hands clench the edge of the vanity, and my shoulders tighten, making the muscles bunch around my neck. I stare at myself in the mirror, water dripping from my face.
You’re a hero. You saved me.
Animal. Murderer.
Are you here to take her away the way you did Katherine?
Cold dread threads its way through my gut and into my heavy heart. I can’t remember the last time someone looked at me like I was worth something—a hero. But the only reason Ivy thinks that is because she doesn’t know.
The damnedest thing is that I never want her to. I want her to stay unaware of the awful past so I’ll always have at least one person who thinks I’m okay.
I can hear Schubert’s Fantasie. Only the primo, though. It’s way louder than it should be. Doesn’t Ivy know what “piano” and “pianissimo” mean?
