Don't Speak (A Modern Fairytale, #5)(70)

“How . . . What do you mean?”

“My boy? My Erik? He’s taken. He’s been good and taken for a while now, which is how I know he was never with you.”

“W-what? What do you mean?”

Fancy threw her cigarette to the ground and reached for Laire’s arm again, holding it with an iron grip and pulling her toward the sliding doors. It was dark outside so, while they could see in, it wasn’t likely that the folks inside eating and drinking could see them.

This time, Laire found Erik immediately, and her heart burst with joy, then clenched in sorrow. His dark hair, thick and unruly, was so familiar, her fingers twitched to touch it. But as she caressed his face, it was impossible not to notice that it was sallow and drawn. He’d lost some weight too. Because of her? Had he been as lovesick for her as she’d been for him? She took a step toward him, but Fancy’s fingers dug painfully into her arm.

“See that stunnin’ girl next to my handsome son?”

For the first time, Laire realized that Erik had his arm around a dark-haired beauty, dressed in a couture cream and gold cocktail dress. She held a Champagne flute like she’d been born with it in her hands, smiling at at Erik like he hung the moon. Who was she? And why did she look so familiar?

“That’s Vanessa Osborn,” said Fancy. “Erik’s lifelong love, Van.”

Van. Van. Her lungs stopped working. But Van is . . . is . . .

“Van?” she repeated dumbly, staring at the beautiful girl she’d seen in so many of the pictures in Erik’s living room. “No, that’s not Van.”

“Of course it is,” said Fancy, releasing Laire to sip her cocktail. “I’ve known Van all my life. So has Erik.”

With her eyes, Laire traced Erik’s arm from his shoulder to where it rested comfortably around Vanessa’s shoulders, his hand curved possessively over her shoulder like a cape.

“No. No,” she said weakly, her voice cracking as the terrible truth of Fancy’s words sank in. “Van’s a man. He’s . . .”

“What in the hell are you talkin’—Does that look like a man to you?”

“No,” sobbed Laire softly, staring at them together—their matching dark heads and perfect, patrician faces. Vanessa would have a deep and cultured voice like Erik’s mother, wouldn’t she? A beautiful, refined Southern accent to match Erik’s. She was perfect for him. She was his match in every way.

. . . which meant . . .

Oh, God.

. . . he’d lied to her. He’d allowed her to believe that he was available when he clearly was not. He’d allowed her to think—every time he mentioned Van—that she was a he, when really she was . . . she was his . . .

“Oh, God,” whispered Laire as memories she treasured started shattering, recontextualized into terrible lies.

“Why?” she whimpered, her whole body trembling as she stared down at her toes. Why?

To get her into bed? To have two girls at once? Was it some sick prank to fuck an island girl? Was she just a challenge? Had he felt anything for her? Had he just used her for a backup fling? Oh, God, why?

She looked up again. Van—Vanessa—held up her hand, on which she wore a diamond ring. She waggled it in front of Erik and giggled as he shrugged, then chuckled along with her.

Fancy, who had lit another cigarette, leaned closer to Laire, her tone conspiratorial. “See the ring on her finger? My grandmother’s ring. Now hers.”

The wind was sucked from Laire’s lungs, and her stomach turned with the few bites of turkey she’d been able to hold down earlier. He’s engaged. He’s engaged to someone else. The ring I need belongs to someone else.

She sobbed, turning away from Erik’s mother and stepping quickly over to the shrubbery that circled the pool deck.

“Aw,” said Fancy. “Well, that’s just charmin’.”

Laire hunched over, retching until her stomach was empty, then turned to face Fancy with tears streaming down her face.

Fancy raised her chin, putting her hands on her hips. She scanned Laire’s body with disgust, spending an extra moment on her belly. “I don’t know who you are, but my son spent his summer with Vanessa. He’s been with her for months. Which makes you a liar.”

Laire shoulders shook with grief, with the sheer scope and magnitude of his betrayal, and she bent her head, staring down at the pool deck in misery. She’d been so gullible. Such a fool.

“Between you and me?” said Fancy gently. “It was a good try.”

“A good try?” asked Laire, looking up at Mrs. Rexford in confusion.

“A good plan. Simple, local girl. Maybe or maybe not pregnant. Pretty enough. Definitely sympathetic. Shows up at the governor’s house on Thanksgivin’ Day, when there are plenty of guests, plenty of witnesses. Claims he did the deed. Clever. Devious, but clever.”

Laire shook her head as tears coursed down her cheeks, but the lump in her throat made a response impossible.

Fancy’s face suddenly hardened, her tone quiet and lethal as she leaned closer to Laire. “But do you know what I hate? Girls who claim they’ve been touched or raped or toyed with. They drag a boy’s name through the mud, splash their dirty lies all over the papers. Then they admit it: ‘I just wanted money. I just wanted attention.’ Except, that filthy story follows the boy around for life.” She dug a finger into Laire’s chest. “Well, not my boy.”