The Lover's Game (16 page)

“What? Now?”

“Yeah, now.” She jumped up and pulled me to my feet. “It’s probably expired, but we could still give it a shot.”

I nodded, even though the idea wasn’t exactly appealing. How would I react if the test came back positive? What could I possibly assume other than that Gina might be into drugs and that she might have thought she was doing me a favor, helping me loosen up? It wasn’t unusual or unheard of. I had grown up in an area where teens offered others drugs, because they assumed their friends wanted to give them a try, too. But would Gina do that without even asking me? I just couldn’t believe she’d sneak it on me, without even telling me.

I watched as Sylvie retrieved a box from an upper shelf in her bedroom and motioned for me to follow her. Even as I walked after her, I knew I didn’t want to go through with the test because I feared its outcome. Then again, if I didn’t find out, the fear of
not
knowing would always be greater, nagging at the back of my mind. Metaphorical dark clouds descended upon me as soon as I joined Sylvie in the bathroom. For some reason, it was almost as bad as peeing on a pregnancy test. With each passing second, I grew more anxious, and finally it was time to evaluate the results.

“Here you go,” Sylvie said.

With a flick of her hand, I had my answer. We both stared at the paper in shock. All substances appeared to be negative, except one.

What the hell!

“You’re positive for GHP,” she whispered.

“Now would be a great time to shoot me,” I murmured. Sylvie opened her mouth to protest or lecture me, but I held up my hand to stop her. “Don’t. I don’t want to hear it.”

“I’m sorry,” Sylvie said slowly.

“Don’t be.” I looked at her grimly, my mind strangely devoid of thoughts. I should have been shocked, fuming mad about the results, anything but—cold and composed.

Someone had spiked my drink, and it seemed that someone was Gina, for whatever reason. The comprehension stung, but it didn’t register. Instead, something else seemed to take center spot in my mind. The knowledge that I wasn’t to blame for what had happened the previous night didn’t ease the guilt of having slept with Jett. Perhaps my foggy mind had failed to recognize him and I had mistaken the entire sordid encounter for a dream, but as sure as hell, Jett had been lingering in my memories the whole time. I wanted him, and he was the one I would always want, the choice I would always make, no matter how bad for me.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s not your fault, Brooke,” Sylvie whispered.

I shook my head, because she didn’t understand. It
was
my fault, and I had no one else to blame. “I could have chosen any man. Why him?” I turned away to hide the telltale moisture in my eyes, but I could feel Sylvie’s intense gaze burning a hole in my back, and her thoughts and anger were almost palpable in the air.

“Oh, sweetie, come here.” She enveloped me in a hug as tears began to trickle down my face again.

I
n spite of my constant assurance that I was okay, Sylvie called in sick at work so she could stay with me. She made breakfast for us, consisting of her usual black coffee and toast, then cleared out a box of old movies for us to watch. For the first time in my life, she even offered to cook us Chinese.

I laughed, until her offended expression told me she was being serious.

“We’d better use them before they expire,” she said, standing in the kitchen with a brand new apron tied around her narrow waist. Scattered across the table were the contents of a gift box consisting of a cooking set for beginners, complete with Chinese ingredients. She had received it last Christmas from an aunt and had stashed it away in the back of a cupboard, along with all the other clutter she didn’t need. At that time, she had claimed the gift was ridiculous. Now, she seemed hell-bent on giving it a try.

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?

“There is no off switch to make my heart complete, okay?” I snapped at her. “I thought that seeing his cheating with my own eyes would make me stop loving him. I thought all the pain and anger would erase my feelings for him.” I smirked. “But I was wrong. I still love him, and I can’t help it. You don’t like it. Well, I don’t like it either, but you know what? I can’t do anything about it.” To avoid her pitiful stare, I looked around and began to open drawers. “Where are my things anyway?”

“Uh-uh. I’ll never tell you.” She shook her head in what I assumed was mock disapproval. “According to various websites, I can’t leave you unsupervised with anything you might use to hurt yourself, not until I’m sure you’re over him.”

I snorted. “You Googled
that
?” I stared at her in disbelief. “Sylvie, I’m fine. No need to panic or turn my hair straightener into contraband.”

“People in forums warn that the person might be lying, pretending to be fine to mask the pain until they are alone.”

The masking part was true, but I certainly didn’t feel suicidal. “Do I look like I’m being irresponsible and ready to kill myself and leave you and my mother behind?” I snapped.

“No, but...” She hesitated.

“Then cut the bullshit.” I held out my hand. “My stuff, Sylvie. Please?”

She shook her head again.

I dropped my hand in mock annoyance. “Fine. Whatever. I’ll find it myself.” With one last glare at her, I headed for her bedroom, but Sylvie blocked my path.

I narrowed my eyes at her and then it dawned on me. She had stashed it all in there.

“I will return everything, under one condition.” She held up a manicured index finger.

“Which is?”

“You let me help you.”

I let out a short, irritated laugh. “I mean it, Sylvie. You don’t have to worry about me harming myself—or him,” I said sourly, deliberately avoiding saying Jett’s name. I knew I sounded bitter, but my emotions threatened to choke me. “I can accept my feelings for him and yet still not want to be with him. For that, I don’t need anyone’s help.”

“I hope so.” The doubt in her tone signaled that she wasn’t convinced. “Because if you don’t get over him, I’ll personally drag your ass to the best LAA group meeting in town.”

I raised my eyebrows in confusion. “LAA?”

“Love Addicts Anonymous,” she clarified. “If an intervention doesn’t help, LAA will solve any sort of obsession problem with any guy.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m
not
obsessed with anyone.” In fact, I hated the sound of the word. Even though I had no doubt that LAA existed, the idea of joining some help organization and talking about Jett, then having to listen to other sob stories, was absurd.

“If you say so.” Sylvie shot me a skeptical look. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt to give it a try.”

A pang of annoyance hit me at the realization that Sylvie didn’t believe me. Just because I was in love didn’t mean I was also obsessed.