Sicko

by Amo Jones

  India: Hey girl, I hope your brother is holding up okay.

  I send off a text saying he’s back to his asshole-ish self and set it back to the ground.

  When my eyes meet Royce’s, he’s glaring at me with cold, distant ones and raised brows.

  “What’d I do now?” I say, already knowing I’m in trouble. “That was India.”

  Royce flips me off. “Not what I’m talking about and you fucking know it.”

  I glare at him. “I have no intention of going.”

  “Going where?” Orson asks, bouncing a basketball between his lanky legs. “I just saw Matty B and told him we’d load up and head to his birthday.” Everyone laughs except Royce. Just as he’s about to interrupt our laughing, Dad comes out the sliding doors, whistling.

  “Roy, a word?” At his presence, I fold my arms in front of myself. I’m instantly uncomfortable and I don’t know why. Royce stands from his chair, making his way into the house. I watch his retreating back with a pang of sadness in my chest. My frown is sharp.

  “Hey.” Orson takes a seat at the end of my lounger. “What’s with the frown?”

  I grab the leather basketball off him and practice spinning it on the tip of my index finger. “It’s Royce.” I glance toward the door to make sure he’s not coming, before focusing back on Orson’s hazel gaze. “He’s a bit off since the incident and I don’t know if it’s a me thing or a him thing.”

  Storm’s eyes go to Orson, and I watch the silent exchange unfold in front of me.

  “Girl, stop. The man just got shanked, he’s moody by nature at times. Let him heal.” Sloane wriggles back into her seat and covers her closed eyes with her Versace glasses. “And anyway, it doesn’t help that you’re growing into this total fucking ten and he has to fight all of the assholes off at school.”

  “He doesn’t even go to our school anymore,” I interfere, referring to all three of them graduating a few months ago. I only have a couple more months left with Orson and Storm before they begin their life without little old me. “Will you guys miss me when you leave?” Storm is attending Brown and Orson is flying to LA to play for their team.

  “Please.” Orson brushes me away.

  Storm continues to glare at me. “I literally could not forget you if I tried, Duchess. I mean that from the bottom of my heart.” He says the words with a passive look over his face, stoic and emotionless.

  “Well, that’s not very assuring, considering you don’t have one.”

  Storm taps his temple. “Ah, she’s catching on.”

  “Only took me almost ten years,” I grumble, relaxing into my chair.

  “For real, I think Royce is just healing. Sloane is right—for once—” Orson stands, removing his shirt and tossing it over his chair. His brown skin glistens against the sun, while his high cheekbones sit above his soft lips that curve around his straight, white teeth. Orson is beautiful. Insanely attractive. The kind of male that almost everyone stops to stare at.

  He runs the palm of his hand over his tight abs. “I’ll have a chat with him.”

  Storm raises one thick eyebrow. “Really?” I watch the exchange between the two of them, and for the first time ever, I feel like I’m missing something, or that someone isn’t telling me something.

  “Why the secrets?” I ask just as Orson dives into the pool and Storm packs away his laptop.

  “We don’t keep secrets, remember?” Storm announces clearly, while carefully placing his entire life into its satchel.

  I wait for Royce.

  But he never returns.

  Later that night I’m in my room, listening to music on my speaker. I still haven’t seen Royce since he disappeared earlier today when we were near the pool. One minute he was with us and the next Dad is taking him away. Something has shifted in the house, and I’m still not sure how or why. After hanging with me for a few more minutes, the boys also drifted into the house. I figured they were going to have that chat with Royce. I don’t want to text them or go knock on Royce’s door. I don’t want to be annoying, even though they annoy me.

  Flipping over to my side, I tuck my hands under my face. Tomorrow better be better. Today sucked.

  She can’t know. Leaving her is going to cripple me, but I have no choice. Not now. Not ever. And not when it comes to her.

  I wake the next morning with stiff limbs, stretching my arms above my head. I’m hoping Royce has calmed down from whatever he was upset about. I want to tell him that we don’t have to go to Matty’s birthday—it was just an invite. I always feel the need to talk him down, but that’s only because he has somewhat become my responsibility, as much as I have become his. We both take care of each other, we always have.

  Jogging down the stairs and making my way into the sitting room, I catch both Mom and Dad standing in front of the fireplace, in a hushed conversation. Their chatter instantly cuts out as soon as I enter.

  “Morning,” I say nervously, glancing between the two of them. Once again, that same niggling feeling is there. Something doesn’t feel right.

  Mom turns to face me. “Honey, I don’t want you to—” Her voice catches in her throat, a teardrop slipping down her cheek. She breathes in, and then out. “The police will be here in a second and I would like you to not stress out.”

  “That’s kind of hard to do when you’re standing there quite clearly stressing out, Mom…” My heart rate quickens, my palms slick with sweat as I cross my arms in front of myself. Mom is always composed, trapped in a society where she thinks perfection is the only way to exist. This isn’t perfection, this is fragility. You’re handing humanity a weapon to use against you if all you expect is perfection.

  Her bottom lip catches between her teeth as she tucks her blonde hair behind her ear. I watch as she fidgets with her rings, her bracelet, before going back to her hair. “It’s Royce. We woke this morning and he’s gone. His room is tipped upside down—” Her voice once again catches in her throat and she moves to the other side of the room to gather a handful of tissues. Pressing them to her nose, she blows loudly. There’s a knock on the door.

  Dad moves between my mom and me, his eyes remaining on mine. That same chill slides down my spine. When he prances past me, he moves in slow motion. His chest is out in confidence, a slight close-lipped smile. I get that he’s trying to reassure me, but nothing is going to help.

  Mom takes my hand in hers, but everything is moving slow. Caught in the confusion of it all, I tug on the palm of her hand. “Tell me what’s going on?”

  “It’s Royce,” she murmurs, swiping the stray tears with her tissues. “He’s gone, sweetheart.”

  Four Years Later

  “Like family to me.” Has to be the most overused term in history. Family. Six letters, one meaning, but double-sided. Family could be the reason why you trust someone, or it can be the reason why you’d never trust anyone again. I already know what side I sit on.

  If you struggle to sleep at night, someone is thinking of you. Like an anchor, tugging on your soul to keep it in this world, as opposed to losing yourself in purgatory. Isn’t that what a dream state is? Purgatory for your head and the messed-up shit that happens inside of it? The place your demons meet with your sanity, and they fight about who will win. Will it be your nightmares or the actuality of peace? I like to think of my life as purgatory, where every day I struggle with both sides. The good, the bad, and the demons I can’t get rid of. Unfortunately. I would say that I’ve been healing in purgatory for the past four years, but I haven’t. My soul is trapped in Hell, unwilling to move on. I’ve blocked people out, shut down, and turned to things I shouldn’t to pacify the raw hunger I feel for the one person I should never have lost

  Sloane drops down on the chair opposite me at our favorite coffee shop in the heart of San Francisco, right near The Market. I can’t wait to finally be out of San Francisco. To escape this endless cycle of my personal nightmare.

  “Are we going out this weekend?” Sloane asks, hiding her face behind
a curtain of newly dyed red hair. “You know, one last hurrah in The Bay area before we have plenty more hurrahs at college together this time.”

  Her logic doesn’t make sense since we already spend a lot of time partying anytime she is home. For the past four years, I’ve been making up for lost time. Getting stuck in whatever I can by doing whatever I want. Sloane remained the most popular girl in Stone View, even when she’s away at UCLA. I did okay too, but we all know it’s because of—him.

  “Yes,” I answer quickly. “I need a distraction this weekend.” It’s Friday night, but that’s not the reason why I need a distraction. It’s the date that this Friday is.

  Her hand comes to mine, the corners of her blue eyes crinkling around the edges. Sloane isn’t the same girl she used to be. She’s older, rounder, sexier. She’s not some naïve little puppy that wants to hang around all of the hot people at school. Now she scares them off by baring her teeth. “I’m sorry. How long has it been now?” The waiter comes to our table.

  “Four years,” I murmur before distracting myself with coffee. “Can I get a caramel latte, please.”

  Sloane orders hers before looking back at me. “Shall we change the subject?”

  I nod. “Yes. About this weekend…” I never like talking about him. In fact, I’ve gone four long fucking years without so much as whispering his name.

  I’m angry. Hurt. But mostly, angry.

  Sloane starts yapping off about what she wants us to do and how we should go about it. I’m not surprised to hear that Matty is home and throwing a party at his parents beach house. Not much has changed where Matty is concerned. Still with the same girl, attending UCLA with Sloane, and still the biggest party-thrower in Stone View. We continue through our plans as I sip on two lattes, a bowl of chili fries, and a chocolate cake. When it’s time for both of us to head home, I kiss her goodbye and make my way out to my car.

  Distraction is the key that cracks open a broken soul. I turn up the music in my BMW all the way home. Home. The large white pillars hold the old-school plantation style mansion up delicately, so uncommon to the standard architecture of San Fran. The manicured grass springs to life and the scatter of vibrant flowers give the otherwise plain style multi-million-dollar property a version of life. Everything is exactly the same, without it being exactly the same. I look at this house with new eyes since he left.

  Sighing, I reach for my handbag and crawl out of my car. I can’t wait to not be here.

  “Jade? Is that you?” Mom asks as I slam the front door closed. I was hoping to slip in discretely, but I’m shit out of luck. Like usual.

  I drop my bags near the front door, removing my scarf. Mom has changed a little over the past four years, becoming more maternal. I think she regrets a lot of what happened with him, and now she’s trying to make up for it with me. It’s exhausting.

  When I amble into the kitchen, I catch her with a wooden spoon clutched in her delicate hand, stirring through cake batter in a couple of large bowls. Her blonde hair is cut razor-sharp now, hanging casually around her jawline. “Will you be home for dinner tonight?”

  “Um.” My eyes fall to my toes. Bright blue nails. I like blue, it reminds me of the ocean. Of tranquility and the sound of angry waves crashing against the acquiescent damp sand. I’ve always loved the defiance of the ocean. It’s moody, beautiful, and could kill you if you’re not smart enough to handle its currents. “I guess.”

  I know that I’m lucky to have had been welcomed into a family that actually fed me. Bathed me. And paid for anything and everything that I could want. They had money. They offered me a warm home and food in my hungry belly. I counted myself lucky. I was well aware of how some foster children had it. But should we really compare our lives to the unfortunate occurrences of others. I think not.

  “Great!” Mom interrupts my coiled thoughts. Her eyes are bright, her cheeks flushed. Something’s not right. The sadness that has always clouded her is no longer there. Her movements aren’t sluggish, there’s a bounce in her step. It’s almost as though— “Royce is home.”

  I freeze, my hands stilling over my water bottle. It feels as if all of my blood leaves my body as my mouth hangs open. She didn’t just say what you thought she did, Jade. Your brain is in purgatory again. My heart races so fast I can’t suck in any oxygen. I’m going to stop breathing.

  “What?” My tone is loud, the syllables sharp enough to cut anyone who says that name again. I shake off my instant thoughts and bring my eyes back to hers. “He’s coming home?!” I swallow long gulps of water to stop my panic from illustrating over my face. No. No. No.

  “It’s his birthday, Jade. I thought you would remember. He’s your brother. Yes, he’s coming home. I’m just” —tears fall down her cheeks— “so happy, Jade. I thought he had left us for good.”

  So did I. My brother who left me. He fucking left me. Abandoned me just like everyone else. He was no better.

  I squash the memories that begin to rise to the surface of my brain. The melancholy that his name left on my heart is too much for my brittle soul to handle right now. I’ve put on a front over the years, a very fucking good one, and I do a lot of things to distract myself from acknowledging my feelings, but nothing, and I mean nothing, comes close to the touch of Royce fucking Kane. Even when he’s not here physically, he’s still inside of me. Living. Existing. Betraying.

  “I haven’t seen him in so long,” is all I manage to say, unable to process what’s happening right now. He fucking left me.

  Mom nods her head eagerly, busying herself back to stirring. Vanilla, no doubt. Royce’s favorite. “I know. It’s been four years, so we want to welcome him home with open arms. God, Jade.” She turns to face me, tears filling her eyes. “I’m so happy that he’s coming home.”

  I want to be happy too, if he wasn’t such a piece of shit for leaving. I was a baby when I was fostered into the Kane family. They took me in as their own, and even Royce pulled me in and treated me like I was his real-life sibling. He was my everything, and being three years older than me, I looked up to him. He took care of me every single day that I was in this house. All of my life I watched as every boy worshipped him, and every girl wanted him. I didn’t do either of those things, but my soul needed him. Until he left me. Alone. In this house. I hate him.

  I drag my sad mood back upstairs, wishing I could fast-forward this day. Or rewind back to when I was born and just not be born.

  As soon as I reach my bedroom door, I swing it open and fall onto my bed. The feathers inside my blanket curving around my petite body as my long brown hair sprawls out around my head. This room holds so many memories of him and I. This whole house does. His bedroom itself remains untouched, and sometimes, when it gets bad, I sleep in his bed. His room is like the charger for my soul when someone else would empty it.

  I’m going to see Royce tonight.

  I don’t want to see Royce tonight.

  I wanted him for so long, cried for him every night until tears stung the corners of my eyes and my lips cracked from dehydration. Now that I know he’s coming home, I don’t want him. I’m angry at him. It’s like those four years did nothing to ease my anger. Time only bathed it, kept it under control.

  I sigh, pulling out my phone and flicking through my playlist. I hit an old-school Guns N’ Roses song and slip into my bathroom, needing to scrub the day off my skin.

  Black. It’s my favorite color. Not because it’s slimming—I don’t need to look slim. But because it’s the color you can wear when you don’t need to put in any effort at all. Like right now. I don’t want to put in any effort even though Mom will no doubt be wearing Prada. The prodigal son returns. I squeeze on a pair of tight black skinny jeans and a loose black shirt. Its thin straps clinging to my frail collarbones. I always wear makeup. I love everything about makeup and how you can artfully apply it to pull off a different look. But tonight, I settle for CC cream and light mascara, piling my long hair into a high ponytail. I just want this over with.r />
  My phone starts vibrating on my bedside table, I pick it up, answering. “What’s up?”

  “Okay, I need to ask you a question…” Sloane purrs down the line. She’s probably already drunk.

  I hesitate. “Sure?”

  “Matty and Rachel broke up. Would it be shit of me if I hit that, even though she’s not our friend?” She’s definitely drunk. “I know you and Matty had that awkward thing too…” Matty and I were nothing, but I also know that Sloane has been pining after him since around when Royce left. “Nothing that you’re thinking of, and we were kids, Sloane. To answer your question, do what you want, as long as you’re sure they’re not together.” About to enter her freshman year of college and she’s still asking about Matty. “If you want him, he’s yours.”

  Sloane sighs. “Okay. I guess. It’s just we all know he has always had a crush on you.”

  I roll my eyes, cradling my phone on my shoulder.

  She continues. “Wanna go get loaded fries?”

  “Um, I sort of can’t.” I catch my reflection in the mirror, realization once again washing over me.

  “Why?”

  I hear the deep growl of a loud engine pull down our driveway—is that a fucking motorbike? “Will talk later.” The rumble is low, reverberating around my room like a soft pounding symphony. It’s heavy enough to squash you.

  “Jade!” my mom yells out from the kitchen. “Downstairs.”

  I quickly shove on my Ugg boots and give myself one more once over before pushing my phone into my back pocket and making my way downstairs. I can see a gathering around the front door as I come down, but I don’t look up until the last minute.

  “Sorry I’m—” I pause.

  There, standing in front of me, is Royce Kane. My stomach hits the floor and my cheeks flare to life. I can feel my blood drain all the way to the tips of my toes when our eyes connect. My heart slows in my chest. The hate is still there, the anger and pain, but now there’s something else happening. Something I’m not ready to acknowledge yet. His ice-blue eyes. Colder than the Atlantic Ocean, but hotter than the pits of Hell. His dark, unruly hair looks like his hands have brushed through it one too many times, and his big, lean body towers over everyone in the room—including the room itself. He has tattoos all over what skin I can see. Royce Kane doesn’t just look like a bad boy. Royce Kane looks like a bad man. He’s not the spoiled rich boy, playing every girl at school. He’s—different. His sharp jaw is clean-shaven, illustrating every cut line of his perfectly constructed face. His straight nose and soft lips. Shit. Double fucking shit. He’s even fucking hotter than he was when he was young.