“Oh, yes. Our little Nessie here did a fantastic job with Lynn’s engagement party last week,” interjects one of Blythe’s friends. “She’ll also be organizing the literacy gala and Riverside Arts fundraisers.”
Come again?
Don’t get me wrong. Vanessa knows how to throw one heck of a party, but doing so takestime. Time she doesn’t have. Seventy percent of her life is focused on ballet, twenty percent likely on sleeping, and the rest is spent with friends. I’m surprised she has the time to even coordinate Derek and Lauren’s wedding. On any occasion I’ve seen Vanessa eating over the past three years, it’s essentially been her shoveling protein bars into her mouth as she’s running out the door.
How the hell is she managing to organizemultiplehigh-profile events and her brother’s wedding with her schedule? And don’t you usually need a bachelor’s degree to get those kinds of gigs in the first place? I know Vanessa has helped one of the event coordinators in town a few times, but it seems like a pretty big leap of faith to hire her on that alone, especially given how much money the people around here spend throwing these kinds of parties.
Thankfully, I don’t need to ask, but the answer only begs more questions as the women gush about how Vanessa somehow “saved” Emily Draper’s wedding back in March.
My sister is still in college, so her only free time would have been during spring break, which is impossible since she has attended the same ballet program for the past four years.
As if to twist the knife deeper into my back for how painfully uninformed I am, Trent adds, “I heard about the injury. Are you going to be performing again?”
Vanessa opens her mouth, and, for the first time in my life, Blythe cuts her off.
“That remains to be seen, but we are hoping for the best.”
Further chattering ensues along the table, and I hear phrases like “labral tear” and “physical therapy” and even mentions of surgery.
What the hell?
No, seriously, what thefuck?
Trent Easton knows more about my sister than I do?
To say everyone has kept me out of the loop is a painful understatement. I understand why Derek didn’t mention it. He saw firsthand how Vanessa treated me last summer, so he knew bringing her up would be a sore subject. And he had likely assumed Dad would have said something, which he evidentlydidn’t. Neither had Blythe. Hell, with that kind of news, I’m surprised my stepmom didn’t hold a full-blown funeral service at the mere thought she may not be able to live vicariously through Vanessa anymore.
My sister hasn’t been limping or showing any signs of stiffness, apart from when she first saw Trent, and I haven’t seen crutches anywhere in the house, so it’s safe to say this happened a while ago…
…which meant everybody had more than enough time to mention this life-altering event for my sister.
The very same sister that apparently slept with the fucker who ruined my life now sitting across from us.
The only way to make me feel less like a member of this family right about now would be to find out I’m literally not related to them.
“My mother’s birthday is coming up, and it would mean the world if you helped us with the party planning,” Trent says, so sweetly it’s enough to make my teeth hurt.
I’ve never known my sister to be the blushing sort, but her face is turning an alarming shade of red, at least for her. Once again, it’s with good reason.
Because Luke is heading back inside.
“My schedule is pretty full right now,” she’s quick to say, looking back and forth between Luke and Trent, as if trying to silently communicate to the latter to follow her line of vision. The “this isn’t the time” message is pretty much stamped across her eyeballs, but the jackass won’t take the hint.
And neither is Blythe when Vanessa looks to her for help. Instead, our stepmom stares back at her like she must be crazy. “Meredith’s birthday isn’t until August. You’ll have plenty of time.”
The instant Luke rounds the table and sees Trent, every muscle in his body goes taut, and his fists clench at his side as he takes his seat beside my sister.
“Can we help you?” It may technically be a question, but it comes out in a growl, sounding more like it belongs with a mouthful of expletives.
“Nope.” Trent’s all too happy to vacate the seat now, winking at Vanessa once more. “I got what I came here for. Or at least, Iwill.”
Vanessa’s eyes slam shut, and I swear it looks like she might scream.
Given my history with the Untouchables, I have made a habit in school of watching every last one of them like a hawk anytime I knew they were near. While most people wrote offTrent’s behavior or missed it entirely, I witnessed everything. The fucker had—and stillhas—two particular setups that float his metaphorical boat.
The victim and the pigeon.
His favorite is establishing his dominance over weak, little, pathetic people like me, but he’s still quite fond of playing the role of Prince Charming to seduce some gullible halfwit. He whispers all the sweet nothings and convinces her that she’s a unique and beautiful snowflake he utterly adores, only to rip the rug out from under her feet. Once he gets what he wants, he laughs in their faces and tosses them aside like yesterday’s garbage. And he only does this to girls he knows are in relationships. Why? It probably makes the game more exciting, but there’s also a practical application. The so-called pigeons are all too embarrassed and ashamed to call him out for his behavior, and now he has something to hang over their heads.
