Page 13 of Never Enough
His gaze lifts to mine, brown eyes searching as if trying to uncover a secret within me that I can’t see myself. Then, he offers a small, grateful smile, and it’s like watching the sun break through storm clouds.
Always and forever.
“Thanks,” he says. There’s something vulnerable in the way he says it.
As we continue cooking, the laughter and conversation flows easily. For a fleeting moment, I allow myself to pretend he feels it too.
The simmering pot on the stove releases a cloud of aromatic steam, but the scent of garlic and basil can’t mask the tension that slices through the air when Victoria strides into the kitchen. Her eyes are dark thunderclouds as she zeros in on us, and I feel a preemptive shiver run down my spine.
“Alex,” she snaps, her voice sharp enough to shave ice. “Celeste is throwing a fit on the sofa. She’s crying.”
I glance over at Alex, his laughter dying in his throat, the corners of his lips tilting downward as if they’re weighted with lead. He coughs awkwardly, casting a look towards the living room that’s equal parts guilt and exasperation.
“Of course she is,” he mutters, almost under his breath, and there’s a note of irritation there that makes me wonder about the cracks beneath their perfect façade. With a resigned sigh, he wipes his hands on a dishtowel and heads towards the sound of Celeste’s whimpering sobs.
I watch him go, feeling a hollow sensation gnawing at my stomach. The kitchen suddenly appears colder as if his departure has let in a draft. My fingers twitch at my sides, useless without his warmth nearby.
“Really?” Victoria’s voice cuts through my melancholy musings. I jerk my head up, meeting her gaze, which feels as though it’s aiming to peel me apart and uncover my innermost thoughts. “What are you doing?”
“Uh, just—” I start, but my voice betrays me, quivering like a plucked harp string. “We were only—”
“Getting cozy with my brother?” Victoria’s eyebrows arch in a silent accusation. “I swear, if this is some ploy to mess with me, I’ll make your life a living hell.”
“Victoria, no, I wasn’t… I wouldn’t—” I fumble for the words, but they’re slippery eels in my grasp. I’m not even sure what truth I’m trying to defend.
Is that why she hates me so much? It started when we were kids because she thought I got special treatment for being “poor”, as she calls it, but has grown because she thinks I’m toying with her brother?
Absolutely not true. I’d never hurt her brother to teach her a lesson. In fact, I care for himdespiteher.
I don’t get the opportunity to tell her any of this because she interrupts me. “Save it. My family gave you opportunities out of pity, and this is how you repay us? By seducing Alex?”
How she implies that I have no real feelings for him is enough to make my skin itch. As if I’d let him become entangled in thecrossfires of my and Victoria’s rivalry. I could never. In fact, when I’m with Alex, I never bring up Victoria. Our competitive nature is a poison, and I’d rather poison myself than expose him to it.
“I promise you that’s not what’s happening. I would never do something like that.”
She studies me for a moment longer as if she’s peering into my soul, searching for deceit. Then, with a heavy sigh that seems to carry all the weight of her suspicions, she turns on her heel and strides away, leaving me to stew in a broth of confusion and hurt feelings.
Alone in the kitchen, I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold together the pieces of a day that has shattered like glass. The boiling pot bubbles over, forgotten, as I collect myself.
Chapter six
Alex
Being with Daphne yesterday while cooking reminded me of my childhood, except it was only good memories this time. If it’s not obvious by now, I used to love cooking. Some would say I still do.
So, as I’m supposed to be meeting Celeste in the music building, naturally, I’m being pulled to the private room Daphne’s playing in. The plan is for me to meet Celeste, but the music building’s labyrinthine corridors have led me astray, or—as I’m beginning to understand—exactly where I’m meant to be. Rooted to the spot, I stand just outside an open door where Daphne sits while playing her harp.
The resonant pluck of harp strings halted me mid-stride, a haunting melody that seeped into the marrow of my bones. It called out to me.
Shecalls out to me.
Daphne has always seen me with a clarity others lack. Since childhood, her gaze has pierced through layers of pretense to theraw core of my being. It’s as if I’m exposed, a specimen under a relentless spotlight, every flaw magnified and laid bare. The world is a relentless observer, and when the scrutiny fades, I retreat into a self-imposed tomb. Forgotten perhaps, but certainly not free.
I’ve felt this way for as long as I can remember. Even now, it’s in the background of my mind, threatening to whisk me away deep into the dirt to decay my aching body.
Maybe if I’m loud, it’ll let me stay. It being the depression.
I almost succumbed to it before.