In the fall of my thirteenth year, I took to sleeping outdoors. Before becoming an intentional habit, it was the result of months of insomnia. Regardless of how tired I was when I went to bed, every night I awoke without fail at one o’clock in the morning.

Houses talk in their sleep, I learned. Creaks and sighs, the whisper of branches against windows. The soft buzzing of computers, refrigerators making ice, wood settling or passed upon by small creatures. Vents funneling hot or cold air into unoccupied spaces.

I wandered empty rooms in the dark, listening to their stories. Why do we heat the guest bedrooms, the laundry room, the pantry? The answer never revealed itself. To this day, climate control in unused rooms (or heat with the doors open) drives me bonkers.

One night, the narrative of the house grew too loud, became grating and insufferable. I ran downstairs and out the back door, and didn’t stop running until I met the fence at the edge of the property.

No alarm sounded at my leaving. My father maintained there was no need to set it, that a security company patrolled the neighborhood nightly. We pay them to protect us. To my young mind, his point was valid. He was my father—he knew things. My mother, however, wasn’t convinced, and for a time she armed the system nightly. This lasted several weeks before one foggy morning, my father tripped the alarm when he went to fetch the newspaper.

Hence, no alarm.

The fence in the backyard was chain-linked and black, meant to blend into the forced-lushness of the landscaping. Pine trees and palm shared the ground with flowering brush and imported mulch. High branches sang new, soothing narratives for my tired ear. I made a bed of leaves and bark and slept.

When it grew too cold for comfort in sweatpants and sweater, I began dragging my comforter into the manufactured wild. My alarm clock was nature. Birds and sunlight sang me from sleep each day, early enough for me to sneak back to my room undiscovered.

Mid-November, it rained. Stubborn as I was, I huddled and shivered in the wet all night, and come morning, my limbs were heavy and fevered.

Oliver found me.

I was deathly sick for two weeks.

My father started setting the alarm at night.

* * *

Guests stream like colorful fish up the Sands’ winding driveway. They go gladly, with wrapped gifts and idle chatter. To me, the beckoning lights aren’t suggestive of a better, brighter future at the end of the proverbial tunnel, but synonymous with the near-death fancy.

“No valet, really?” whines Lillian, bending to dislodge a small rock from her high-heeled sandals.

I shrug. “Maybe she’s in one of her ‘back to roots’ phases.”

“Does that mean hayrides and kegs?”

I chuckle, but it’s forced. Beside me, Alex wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Remember,” he murmurs, “there’s no battle if you’ve already won the war.”

Lillian snickers. “Alex Hughes, Zen master.”

He snorts and presses a kiss to my temple. “Thea knows what I mean.”

And I do.

During the limo ride home this morning, he’d asked me to tell him about my childhood. So I had, sharing things I’ve never shared, not even with Lillian or Margaret…. the hiding in the library, the sleeping outdoors, the soul-stealing flash of eye contact. My armor and lack thereof when it comes to him. (He enjoyed that bit very much.)

I told him, also, about Tabitha seducing Damien. Or vice versa. How the day after the proposal of marriage I’d come home during my lunch break, only to find my fiancé and little sister mid-coitus. How, at the time, my only coherent thought was, At least they’re using the guest bedroom.

Alex had listened quietly through it all, his hand making steady passes over my hair. Feeling safe and accepted in his arms, I’d blurted an invitation to my mother’s birthday party.

So… here we are.

With Tabitha somewhere ahead of us.

“You’re right,” I tell him. “They can’t touch me. I’m the Karate Kid. Wax on, wax off.”

He chuckles and takes my hand, tugging me once more into motion. “You’re a bit of a nerd, Thea Sands.”

Lillian adds helpfully, “You have no idea.”

I glare at her. Alex winces, murmuring, “My head went into the gutter on that one.”

“Ew!” squeals Lillian delightedly. “Schoolgirl outfits and pigtails? Wait—nevermind. I just crossed a line with myself.”

Alex and I look at each other. There’s a speculatory gleam in his eye that makes me blush and laugh. “Not happening, Mr. Hughes.” But we both know I’m lying.

As we cross the threshold of my childhood home, I suffer a strange wave of nostalgia. Time freezes for an instant and also shifts backward. Nothing and everything is the same.

There’s a new coat of paint in the foyer and the floors have been updated. A few new pieces of furniture, too, but the same art on the walls. A familiar smell invades my nose, that elusive fragrance that speaks of home. Or in my case, Not-Home.

There’s a maid standing beside the hall closet, a fixed smile on her face. Partygoers stuff sweaters and the occasional warmer jacket into her arms. It’s foggy and damp tonight.

My hands are clammy, my heart fluttering nervously. Alex squeezes my fingers, then releases them and strides toward the maid.

Lillian returns from depositing our gift on a crammed side table. We watch Alex chat with the woman while removing and handing her his sportcoat. Beneath it, he’s wearing a lightweight grey sweater, which he shoves up his arms. The movements appear absentminded, casual. But I know what he’s doing.

“Ohh, pretty tattoos,” Lillian whispers.

My chest warms, anxiety releasing. He’s building me armor of himself.

When he returns to us, his arm curls possessively around my shoulders. As Lillian leads us forward, I lean into his side, breathing his scent, his stability, and the proof that he cares about me. That maybe he feels some measure of what I do.

Stay with me. Don’t run.

“The rodeo is in town,” says Lillian beneath her breath.

We walk into the great room, an open hall that, when not filled with people, has absolutely no purpose except to collect furniture. Now, there are at least a hundred glittering socialites mingling. Glasses clink, cultured laughter sounds, and liveried staff carry trays of hors-d’oeuvres.

“Thea, my dear!”

Katherine Sands appears like a nymph from dark forest trees. Her dress is emerald green and sparkling, her arms open to receive me. She’s perfectly coiffed and dripping in diamonds.

I remember Alex’s words in the limo: You have nothing to prove. Be yourself.

And the truth is, I love my bitch mother.

She expects air kisses, but I give her a hug. A real one. I can feel the surprised stiffening in her shoulders. It doesn’t quite go away, but she does relax a little.

“Thank you for coming,” she says softly. I think she means it.

I release her and smile. “Happy birthday, mother. You look beautiful. I hope you don’t mind that I brought another guest. I believe you’ve met Alex—”

“Hughes,” she gushes. “Of course I don’t mind.” She waves Alex forward for the requisite air kisses. Lillian snickers at the odd sight. My mother is barely five foot five in heels and Alex has to bend almost in half to submit to her imperious demand.

Once the ritual is complete, my mother beams at Alex, then at me. Either she hasn’t noticed his tattoos, or his price tag is blurring her vision. An avaricious gleam in her eye, she asks, “You’re working together, is that right?”

Alex lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles. My mother almost swoons; Lillian rolls her eyes.

“I’m courting your daughter, Mrs. Sands,” Alex says, offering a billion-dollar smile. He winks. “Don’t tell her boss.”

My mother blushes and trills a little laugh. “Oh, well! That’s wonderful. My, you do present a lovely picture together. Is this exclusive?”

I wince at the question. For all her Old Money posturing, my mother hasn’t mastered Old Money subtlety. But if Alex is surprised, he hides it well. Smoothly, he replies, “Very much so.”

This time, I almost swoon.

Someone calls my mother’s name. For a moment, she’s torn between the desire to pry and the desire to be adored by fans. The fans win. “Enjoy the party, you two.” She wiggles her fingers and glides away.

I release a breath, shaking a little. Alex laughs and kisses my forehead. “She’s a treat,” he says.

Lillian asks blandly, “Where can a thirsty cowgirl get a drink?”

Over the next several hours, Alex and I survive an endless flow of meaningless conversations, mostly with starched men who recognize him as a big fish in a small pond. They grill him about his restaurants, his brothers’ ventures, his father’s leisure activities, and the stock market.

As his hand is cemented to mine, I have little choice but to summon Margaret’s training. I smile at his suitors, charm them until they blush, and laugh at their bad jokes.

Lillian, who we check on every half hour, holds court on one of the long couches. A variety of younger men and women circle her constantly. After one visit, I comment to Alex, “It’s always been like that for her.”

“She reminds me of my sister,” he says fondly. “Candace could be wearing rags and the masses would still flock to her.”

“I want to meet her.”

He kisses my temple. “You will.”

We survive cake cutting and a couples’ waltz. Around eleven o’clock, alcohol consumption peaks. Voices are loud and the laughter louder. The music shifts from classical to the crooning tunes of Ella, Sinatra, and Miles.

Alex and I dance in a world apart, our bodies in a line, our faces close. His steady gaze lifts me slowly, surely, into a buzzing state of arousal. He is likewise affected, the evidence hidden between us.

When the song closes, I whisper, “Want a private tour?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Beyond the borders of the party, the house is yawningly quiet and empty. My tour consists of a staircase to the lower level and a walk down a wide, shadowed hallway. I stop before closed double doors.

“I know you can change locks, but can you pick them?” I tease.

Alex, remembering my story of the library, lifts a brow and tries the knob. It turns easily in his hand, the door swishing open over carpet. He grins. “I’m just that good.”

Laughing, I move past him to reach for the light switch. It clicks on.

I freeze.

“Oh my God,” I croak.

The library is gone. The built-in shelving has been torn down, replaced by wallpaper. No heavy couch I once hid behind. No sideboard I crawled into. Not one book.

Instead, the room boasts workout equipment. A massive flatscreen occupies the wall above a fireplace that’s never seen wood. Amidst a treadmill, recumbent bike, and elliptical, there are exercise balls. A pink yoga mat and matching blocks.

There’s a sudden, immense sinking feeling in my stomach. I cover my abdomen with both hands. My mother hates yoga.

Hesitantly, Alex begins, “Are you sure—”

“Of course I’m sure,” I say tightly.

From behind us, a saccharine sweet voice says, “Do you like what I’ve done with the place?”

Tabitha.

She strolls into the room, her every movement orchestrated for maximum impact. Bronzed, slim limbs sway beneath a short red dress that more closely resembles lingerie than evening wear. Her long, golden hair spills in soft waves down her back. On her chest, the loose curls part over breasts that are sizably larger than I remember.

Like hearing my given name, the sight of my sister freezes something inside me. She’s poison, but I’ve been taking small, regular doses for years.

I ask, “Did you burn the books, or just throw them away?”

Tabitha smiles. I blink, having forgotten how stunning she is. Her catlike, tawny eyes shift to Alex and back to me. “I don’t know what happened to them,” she says carelessly. “Mother probably donated them to the less literate.”

Bitch. Aloud, I comment, “I didn’t know you were living here again. What happened to your acting career?”

She titters, shrugging in such a way that pert nipples push against silk. “I’m still young, Thea.” Unlike you, echoes between us. Her gaze cuts to Alex. “Plenty of time to play.”

Bracing myself for his reaction to her, I glance at Alex. Instead of interest, I find an expression of bored indifference. In fact, I’ve never seen him look so haughty. I wonder if he’s mimicking his father, as I mimic Katherine. It’s a little unnerving.

“You must be Tabitha,” he says mildly.

She smiles slowly. “Very funny, Alex.”

His brows lift. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

Tabitha’s smile freezes. I almost feel sympathy, as her mind races to adapt to the vicious snub. She fails—nothing in her life experience has prepared her for this moment.

Still, she’s well trained. She doesn’t blush or otherwise react. Slowly, her focus returns to me. The loathing in her eyes is so unexpectedly intense that my weight shifts back to my heels.

“Lucky you,” she purrs. “He has a fabulous cock, doesn’t he?”

Alex takes my hand. “We’re leaving,” he says curtly.

I don’t move. Surprisingly, I’m not angry. Just sad and a little tired. I ask her softly, “Why do you hate me so much?”

She feigns sympathy with a little pout. “Poor Thea, always so misunderstood. Always better than. No one has ever been good enough for you, have they? Not even your family.”

“Stop,” warns Alex.

She smiles coyly at him. “That’s not what you said when my mouth was—”

“Tabitha,” I snap, “Act like a lady.”

Her laughter is sharp and loud. “A lady? It was you acting like a lady that bored Damien to tears. Do you know what he told me? That you were a dead fish in bed. He’s insatiable, just like Alex. You’ll never keep him satisfied.”

Alex’s grip tightens to near-pain. “It’s okay,” I tell him, keeping my eyes on Tabitha. “She can’t hurt me.”

Color flares high on Tabitha’s cheeks. She’s not beautiful anymore, but ugly with hatred and fury. “You frigid bitch,” she snarls. “You’re a stain on this family. An embarrassment. It’s you who aren’t good enough for us. Haven’t you ever wondered why you have dark hair while Oliver and I are blond? Because you have a different—”

“That’s enough!” My mother’s strident shout pierces the room. She strides to Tabitha, seizes her arm, and wrenches her around. “Apologize to your sister and Alex, this instant!”

I have never in my life heard my mother yell.

“Mama—” Tabitha begins.

Crack. Tabitha’s head turns sharply with the openhanded blow. There’s a moment of pregnant silence, then a gasp. It takes me a second to realize it’s mine. Movement in the doorway catches my eye and I meet Lillian’s shocked gaze.

Tabitha makes a soft noise and runs from the room, shoving past Lillian.

“Mother?” I whisper.

The woman who lifts her head is someone I’ve never seen before. Worn down, defeated. “She’s lying,” she whispers, but her eyes are windows to the truth.

My legs wobble and Alex grabs me before I fall.

Katherine’s shoulders stiffen, lips thinning with defiance. “It’s not true,” she grinds out, then turns in a whirl of glittering green and strides from the room.

It’s so quiet I can hear the ticking of a wall clock.

“Thea?” murmurs Lillian. “Are you okay?”

Both she and Alex wear expressions of careful concern. They’re waiting for me to freak out, but I don’t have it in me. Anger passed in a blur. A left turn was taken somewhere after shock. I’m firmly in the neighborhood of giddy.

“Well, that was awkward,” I say mildly.

Lillian snorts, then slaps a hand over her mouth. With strain, Alex echoes, “Awkward?”

I shrug. “It certainly explains some things.”

Pained laughter escapes Lillian’s fingers. “Oh, Thebes…”

Alex releases a slow breath and wraps me in his arms. “Ms. Sands,” he murmurs, “you are an amazing woman.”

“I’m glad you think so, Mr. Hughes, but this amazing woman’s head is about to pop off. Can we get out of here?”

He kisses my temple and speaks over my head, “Do you know a back way out?”

“Not a problem,” Lillian replies, and she leads us down two more hallways, past the laundry room, and out the garage into the foggy night.

* * *

It’s very late. The condo is quiet and dark beyond the small pool of light beside the couch. I’ve been sitting a while, maybe an hour or more. I must have cried at some point because my face is tight and swollen. But right now, I feel empty. Almost peaceful.

“Thea?” asks Alex. “What are you doing out here?”

He’s little more than a finely formed shadow—broad shoulders, narrow hips, pajama pants—until he’s halfway across the room. Sinking down beside me, he pulls me onto his lap. I sigh and rub my face against his warm chest.

He gently brushes hair from my cheek. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“I had a dream and woke up.”

“What was the dream?”

“An old memory about Margaret. She told me once… She said I was the daughter she never had.” My voice is oddly flat; Alex’s focus sharpens.

“Thea?” he prods gently.

“Margaret couldn’t have children,” I tell him. “It was a huge source of pain for both her and her husband. Or, that’s what she told me. I never met her husband. His name was Robert. He died before I was born—a skiing accident. Margaret hated skiing, so she wasn’t on the trip with him, but… but…”

He releases a slow breath of understanding. “Your mother was,” he finishes.

I nod, feeling oddly light. Relieved. “My parents, actually. And six other couples.” I swivel, reaching out to snag the several loose papers on the coffee table. I rest them on my lap and spread them out. “This is a letter Margaret wrote me on my eighteenth birthday. I found it in the envelope from the lawyer, tucked inside the will. I wish… I wish she’d given it to me sooner.”

I stare at the elegant cursive until Alex tugs the papers from beneath my hand. Angling them toward the light, he reads swiftly. I watch the steady pulse in his throat, the even rise and fall of his chest, the frown of concentration on his brow.

Love for him rises through me, buffering me against the impact of what he’s reading.

Margaret and my mother’s social circles intersected only occasionally. (Katherine was glitzy cocktail parties, Margaret the symphony.) She didn’t meet me until I was thirteen and old enough to attend her annual garden party. We hadn’t spoken that year, but not because she hadn’t noticed me.

According to her letter, she’d been floored by the sight of me, and had excused herself early with complaints of a headache. She’d gone immediately to dig up adolescent pictures of Robert. And the evidence, already compelling, had become incontestable.

I won’t lie to you, Thea. Initially, I was very angry. Never once in my marriage had I suspected infidelity. Quite against my will, however, when we first spoke the following May, I fell hopelessly in love with you. You are very much your father’s daughter. A dreamer, a misfit thinker. Balanced between the physical and intangible worlds, never a part of either but determined to find your place in both.

Robert would have loved you so very, very much. Having you in my life has been like having a piece of him still with me. The brightest and best piece. That’s what you are to me, my love. His daughter, and therefore mine. The most blessed gift of my life.

When Alex is done reading, he lowers the papers to the couch and takes my face in his hands. His eyes scan mine, tender and probing. “Do you know what Robert looked like? Have you seen a picture of him?”

“Yes, in Margaret’s house. He was taller than my… my father. Um, dark haired. Dark eyes.”

“She mentions you have his mouth,” he says softly. A thumb traces my lower lip and the little indent beneath it.

More than my mouth triggered recognition for Margaret. It was also the shape of my eyes, my ears, the slight curl in my hair… But mostly, it was the subtle influences of personality. My nose crinkling when I frowned, the habit of moving my hands when I spoke. My preoccupation with watching, my social-phobias and introversion.

“She never confronted my mother,” I whisper. “She was too much of a lady.”

He kisses my forehead and guides my head back to his chest. “The money makes more sense now, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.” I take a deep breath, drawing his scent into my lungs. “I swear, Alex, my life isn’t usually this big of a shit-show. In fact, before you appeared everything was blissfully normal. What are you, some sort of craziness catalyst?”

He chuckles softly. “Normal is boring, love.” My heart squeezes hard at the casual endearment. I close my eyes, grateful he can’t see my face.

At length, I ask, “Do you think I should tell my mother that I know?”

“Eventually, yes. You have that right, and you’ll have questions.”

“God, what a nightmare,” I groan. “I keep wondering how Tabitha found out. Or did she just guess? Does Oliver suspect? Does my father know? He has to, of course. How could he not? But he never treated me any differently…”

Sometime during my tirade, Alex begins stroking my back. Slowly, the tension ebbs from my body and I melt against him. I’m suddenly very tired. “You have magical hands, Mr. Hughes.”

He smiles against my hair. “I’ve stumbled onto one of life’s great truths: the same ministrations that work on fretful horses work on—”

I elbow him in the stomach but he merely laughs, then stands with me in his arms. After a pause to switch off the light, he carries me to the bedroom. I’m already half-asleep as he settles on his back with me tucked into his side.

His fingers play with my hair. I yawn and angle a leg over one of his, pressing closer to his heat. “Alex?”

“Mmm?”

“Have you thought about, um, doing that… stuff to me?”

His fingers pause, then continue their movements. “Go to sleep, Thea.”

I tilt my head to search the shadows for his face. His eyes are closed, but the tension in his body tells me he’s very much awake. “Have you?”

“Shhh,” he murmurs.

Too tired to argue, I drop my head and nuzzle his skin. “I’d let you, you know,” I whisper. His lips graze my forehead. My mind begins drifting, edging over the precipice of sleep.

I almost don’t hear his whisper of, “I know.”