The Lover’s Game (No Exceptions #2)(31)
Author: J.C. Reed

I lifted the recipe book and flicked through the first few pages. It was the smallest cookbook I had ever seen, barely bigger than my palm.

“This is it.” Sylvie pointed to a page.

Doubting the sanity of her idea, I scanned the recipe and was about to express my concern, when Sylvie opened a packet of black, shriveled fungi. I pinched my nose at the pungent smell: a noxious mixture of old cheese, stale beer, and wasted onions and garlic. “You sure you want to do this?” I asked, even though I knew she wasn’t; I could tell from the darting eye movement and the nervousness reflected in her expression. Like me, Sylvie was scared of cooking. “I mean, I appreciate the effort, but we could always just order in.” I made it sound nonchalant, as though it didn’t matter to me either way, even though I was almost ready to beg her to throw away the smelly stuff and leave the cooking to people who knew what they were doing.

“No.” She shook her head with the kind of determination I had learned to fear from her. “I want to cook for you, to do something nice. Anything that makes you feel better, you know?”

My mouth went dry. Usually, when Sylvie tried to do something nice for me, it ended in disaster, but I couldn’t bear to tell her that. In order to prevent any calamity that could possibly happen, I would just have to keep an eye on her. “In that case, at least let me help you.” I grabbed a knife, ready to chop a carrot, but Sylvie snatched it out of my hands, shooting me an awkward look.

“I’d rather you enjoy the movie.” She stashed the knife out of my reach.

Was that a hint of nervousness I detected? I eyed her carefully. Avoiding my probing gaze, she held the knife close to her chest, as if it was some prized possession and anytime someone might try to steal it from her.

My stomach churned.

Surely…no, it couldn’t be. As if sensing my stare, her grip around the knife tightened, until her knuckles whitened.

Oh, for crying out loud.

“You’re right. I should relax more and take it easy.” I smiled. “I’m going to take a bath.” I headed for my room and closed the door behind me. I had barely pressed my back against the wall when footsteps thudded down the hall and the door was thrown open. Sylvie’s frantic gaze swept over me and then the bathroom. She looked so miserable, that I had to stifle a laugh.

“Taking a bath sounds great, but could you leave the door open? Please?” She smiled but it looked pasted on. “In case I need you,” she added. “Thanks.” She smiled again and, without another word, she returned to the kitchen.

Oh, my god.

No way. No freaking way.

Sylvie thought I was suicidal. Under different circumstances, I would have laughed and called her out on it. But I couldn’t this time because I had no one but myself to blame. Obviously, she had mistaken my joke about killing myself as a call for help. Or maybe I looked like a loose cannon that might go off at any time. I snorted.

As if I would kill myself over Jett.

I opened several doors in our bathroom and scanned the contents of the shelves in the medicine cabinet: pills, razors, and even the hair straightener were gone. Even the belt of my bathrobe was absent. That was ridiculous.

“Sylvie!” I yelled and followed her into the kitchen, unsure if I should be angry or laugh about the absurdity of the situation. “Where’s my hair straightener?” Or any other electrical items I might choose to electrocute myself?

“It’s…” Sylvie paused, struggling for words. “Faulty. I had to send it back for repairs.”

“Really?” I raised my eyebrows. “And where are the razors, so I can shave my legs? I have to be at work at seven.”

“Used them.” This time, her lie came out smooth and prepared. She even nodded convincingly.

“The whole pack?”

“Yes.” Not even a blink.

I opened our utility drawer. All plastic bags were gone. As if I would pull one over my head and suffocate myself. I took a deep breath and released it slowly.

“You wouldn’t, by any chance, happen to think I might want to kill myself just because I slept with Jett, would you?” I asked nonchalantly.

Sylvie’s eyes popped wide open. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, only to reopen it a second later. I held up a hand to stop her.

“I see your point,” I said through gritted teeth. “You’re afraid I might harm myself, and I appreciate your concern. But—” I heaved an annoyed sigh. “It’s not going to happen. I won’t kill myself over Jett. Even with all the bad things in my life, that thought has never crossed my mind.”

“It’s just…” She trailed off, leaving the rest hanging heavy in the air.

“I slept with him, and I know that’s a reason for concern.” I nodded slowly, trying to keep my voice calm. “I’m reminded of that every hour. And it doesn’t exactly help that I still love him or that I was under the influence of drugs without even knowing it. But that doesn’t mean I’m suicidal, all right? So, for the sake of my sanity, can you please return my things?”

Sylvie just stared at me.

I frowned. “What?”

“I don’t understand, Brooke,” she said slowly. “How can you still love him after everything he’s done?”

I opened my mouth to offer some sort of witty reply, but my brain failed to come up with any worthy retort. In all the frenzy of her worrying and my assurances that she didn’t have to worry about me, the words had just stumbled out of my mouth. Not once had I stopped to think about what I was saying.

Crap!

Why did I have to declare my undying love for him? Even if it was true—truly, crappy, painfully true—Sylvie wouldn’t understand. After Jett’s angry departure, I had thought hard about him. It wasn’t just the images of him and Tiffany and visiting his killer brother that were branded in my mind. I also remembered the hours I had spent with him, all those good times that had made me believe our relationship was long-term material. Even now that it was over, I still thought about him nonstop. Seeing his face in my mind was painful, but so was the fact that I still loved him without wanting to, and there was nothing I could do about that. He was in my mind, behind every thought, every word—sneaking around like the shadow of a draft, always there but not visible to the eye.

“Brooke?” Sylvie prompted. Realizing she was still waiting for an answer, I looked up and grimaced. Of course she wouldn’t let it go. For once, couldn’t she pretend she didn’t hear my foolish declaration of love to the one guy who didn’t deserve it?