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“You wouldn’t have defended me anyway,” she said, seeing it all so clearly now. “Because it would have meant actually bothering to see me.”
“That’s a little melodramatic, don’t you think? Even for you.”
The droll comment sliced to the bone. But she could see it for what it was now. A distraction technique. One that Seb had used countless times before.
“Really?” She shot back. “It’s melodramatic to want your support, to need some small sense that the one family member I have left at least cares enough about me to be there when I need him?”
The problem hadn’t been that she felt too much. It had been that he refused to admit he felt anything at all.
“I survived the accident,” he said. “What more do you want?”
“Much, much more,” she said. “I wanted you to hold me, when we stood by their graves together. I wanted you to stay with me instead of running off to join the French Foreign Legion weeks after they died. I wanted you to let me come home for the holidays without making me beg. I wanted you to welcome me back a few months ago and I wanted you to accept a simple dinner invitation tonight without making up some pathetic excuse.”
He flinched, his whole body going rigid. And for a moment she thought she might have pierced the armor plating he had worn around his emotions ever since he had regained consciousness in the emergency room all those years ago. But within seconds, the inscrutable expression had returned.
“At least I didn’t get lost in a haze of booze and pills and God knows what else,” he murmured.
“No you didn’t,” she said. “And you’re right, I did. And it’s true that wasn’t your fault, it was mine.” Because blaming him for her addiction issues would be as damaging as blaming herself for his emotional withdrawal. “But I did eventually face my demons, Seb. And I’m prepared to spend the rest of my life making sure they don’t beat me again.” Even though it meant letting go of the one thing that could have made her truly happy. “What I’d like to know is when exactly are you planning to face yours?”
He stared at her for the longest time, but his dark eyes remained blank, his expression revealing nothing, until he finally said. “I don’t have any demons.”
“Yes, you do,” she said, even though she already knew the argument was pointless. “The accident changed you. I don’t know how or why particularly, but maybe you need therapy to get over that?”
One eyebrow rose in cynical disbelief. “I don’t need therapy. I’m absolutely fine.”
She threw up her hands. “Right, yes, of course, you’re absolutely fine, Sebastian. Silly me.”
He didn’t respond, but then she hadn’t really expected him to.
She walked back through the rambling bushes, refusing to let the foolish, self-indulgent tears fall.
The lush blooms and vibrant colors seemed to mock her, a testament to how much care and attention her brother had lavished on them. He’d obviously nurtured their mother’s old plants, coaxed all this fragrant beauty out of them with a patience and tenderness he’d never been able to show her.
As the anger drained away, it left the hollow sense of loss in its wake. Not just for the brother she’d once had, but for the man who might have been able to love her—if only she had been able to turn back the clock.
She took the staircase back to the second floor landing and walked into her own rooms. Fabulous, well that had been a staggering success, now she felt even less worthy of affection than a bunch of bloody rose bushes.
The sound of a commotion from outside had her peering out of the window to see Dawn, Mercy, and Faith piling out of a cab. And the surge of joy and surprise eased the hollow loss, at least a little.
Her friends were here. The women who had stood by her no matter what.
She had lost Seb’s affection through no fault of her own all those years ago and killed Ty’s stone dead eight days ago. But she had this, she had them, and right now, she needed them, more than ever.
Sucking in a careful breath, she rushed out of the room and headed down the stairs, determined not to give in to her pity party and fall to pieces in front of them.
The bell rang and the housekeeper appeared from nowhere to check the peephole in the door.
“Let them in, Mrs. Jempson.” Zelda called out, countermanding the order she’d given that morning.
The flash of bulbs, the whirr of shutters and the shouts for a statement burst into the quiet entrance hall as her three friends spilled through the door as if propelled by a hurricane. Mrs. Jempson slammed the door shut behind them.
Zelda raced down the last few stairs as Faith lifted the large flask she had stowed under her arm. “We have virgin mojitos!”
“And Bridget Jones and Eliza Bennett,” Dawn chimed in, holding a selection of classic DVDs aloft.
“And enough truffles to sink the Titanic.” Mercy finished, brandishing a bag from Zelda’s favourite chocolatier.
Zelda smiled as tears of gratitude clogged her throat.
