“Cecelia,” I grit out, “I’m about two seconds away from—”
“You, what y-you do for them,” she murmurs, pulling back. “I w-went w-with Tyler today to d-deliver the checks, and I,” her lip quivers as she stares up at me, another tear giving way to another, her expression hitting with the impact of a sledgehammer—a mix of admiration and adoration, for me. “What you’ve done for them, Dom, it’s incredible.”
“Cecelia,” I grunt as relief courses through me, “It’s not—”
“No,” she scolds, furiously shaking her head as Tyler saunters in behind her, his lips tilted in amusement. I narrow my eyes at him over her shoulder. He shrugs. “Don’t look at me, man. She figured it out,” he sighs, “she’s been like this all day.”
He lays a consoling hand on Cecelia’s back while passing us on the way to his room. “See you soon, beautiful.”
“T-thank you for today, Tyler,” Cecelia sniffs, her respect-filled gaze following him until he clears the stairs before she zeroes back in on me.
“You don’t get to downplay what you’re doing, Dominic. You deserve to know how you’re changing their lives.”
She grips the hand I have palming her face, her need to express this to me outweighing any of her typical emotional sidestepping for my comfort. “You’re saving them—” She crumbles again, and it’s then I recognize just how personal this particular club errand was for her. Wiping more of her tears with my thumbs, it becomes clear that she’s reliving years of repressed acknowledgment of the neglect she endured at her mother’s hands. Gently gripping her arm, I usher her up the stairs and into my room, sitting her at the edge of my bed before kneeling in front of her. A few seconds tick by before she collects herself enough to speak—her eyes gloss over with memory.
“I w-was five the first time I remember it happening . . . the first time she got lost in her head and checked out,” she sniffs, her voice raw. “It’s like she forgot I existed . . . her eyes . . . it was like she was looking right through me. You could tell, you could feel her pain, so much pain,” her voice cracks. “I don’t remember how long it went on. What I do remember is her lying on the couch, day and night. She didn’t move, Dom. She didn’t change clothes or shower . . . When I tried to talk to her, it was like she couldn’t hear me. I remember thinking . . .” she shudders as another lone tear tracks down her cheek. “。 . . That maybe if I swept the floor and did the dishes, it might make her happy.”
The gap in my rib cage widens as I imagine Cecelia trying to work a broom handle taller than she was and straining on her toes to do dishes in a sink she probably couldn’t reach.
“I ate wish sandwiches,” she admits sheepishly, body shaking as she struggles to quiet her cries enough to speak, “do you know what those are?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, all too aware, “when you wish there was more in between the bread than just—”
“Cheese,” she finishes as we share a sad smile.
“Until the cheese ran out, and then it was ketchup and bread.” Her deep blue eyes finally focus on me, pinning me. “She tried, Dom, she really did. So hard. Her highs were amazing—some of the best memories I have. But her lows—her spells—they would always set us back so far that she’d spend her time between them playing catch up.”
Her lips quiver as she stares at me long and hard, prying deeper before she speaks. “I know you know what it feels like to be invisible . . . to have a sick parent. To suffer and constantly worry about if the lights will get cut off, or if you’ll have lunch money or eat at all. I saw it that night I was there. I felt it in the atmosphere of that house. The desperation,” she holds a palm over her chest, “because it lingers there, it’s in the walls, and I recognized it. I lived through it too.”
She weighs my expression, and I have no idea what she sees as my heart thuds out of control—her confessions striking deeper with each one.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
“I-I’m sorry,” she whispers, “I don’t mean to unload on you, it was just . . . today did something to me, and as those people lit up, as the worry eased from their faces . . .” she relays, heart in every single syllable. “I had to come here. I had to tell you that you probably saved some invisible kid from a similar fate today. Kids like us . . . or someone like my mom who was sick, and is still sick, and too fucking broke to get the help she needs.” Tentatively reaching out, she palms my face, slowly running a thumb along my jaw. “Do you know that’s why I’m here?”
I shake my head because it’s the truth. All I knew was what was in the email. Sean hadn’t trusted me with this, but to be fair, I hadn’t ever let him get far in telling me much about Cecelia. Though the house is equipped and tapped, I haven’t listened in since the day I picked her up. Roman hasn’t been back, so I’ve respected her privacy—even when curious.
“I’m here. I came to Triple Falls because she’s sick. She went into a deep depression just after I graduated. She just couldn’t function, so when Roman sent the invitation, I couldn’t say no, Dom. I’m doing this for her. I’m here to get an inheritance, to do the same thing you’re doing for so many others that need the help.” She moves in and presses a slow kiss to my lips. “I just couldn’t . . .” her blue eyes shine with a sincerity that levels me, “I had to come here and make sure you know that you’re a good man, Dom—an incredible man.”
Pulling her hand away, I shake my head in refusal. “I’m not, Cecelia, don’t believe the narrative going on in your head. It’s your emotions playing tricks on you.”
“Bullshit,” she retorts, shaking her own head, refusing my statement.
“Don’t put me on some nonexistent pedestal,” I warn. “I’ll only disappoint you.”
“Please,” she begs, stopping my retreat, “please, just . . . just acknowledge that you’re helping people. Desperate people who need it. Give yourself that much credit, okay?”
I nod, my throat tight. “Okay.”
“I’m sorry I unloaded on you,” she sniffs, wiping her rapidly flushing cheeks. “You probably think I’m crazy.”
“You do leak a lot,” I flash her a grin as she looks over at me without a trace of humor.
“I see your heart, Dom, I see it—and it’s beautiful.”
Biting my lip, I stand. She glances around like she doesn’t remember how she got here as I go through the same motions, chest raw and aching.
She stands and shakes her head ironically. “God, I’m a mess. I’m going to go clean up for my shift.” Looking up at me, she lifts and presses a slow, emotion-infused kiss to my lips. I don’t catch her parting comment as she walks out. I’m still standing in the middle of my room when she starts her car.
“I have lived a great deal among grown-ups. I have seen them intimately, close at hand. And that hasn’t much improved my opinion of them.”—Le Petit Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry