Page 5 of Backlash

“I can’t believe he left on her birthday,” I say.

“It’s better, though,” Cyrus points out. “All our parents take off so they can pretend they don’t know what we get up to.” He taps his glass against mine. “Cheers to absentee parents.”

It’s a weird thing to toast to, but I guess if daddy pays the bills and keeps you in luxury cars, you don’t care.

“What about you?” Cyrus asks.

“Huh?” The glass is hovering near my mouth, but I can’t seem to take a drink.

“Your parents. You never talk about them.” A shadow passes over his face and his eyes widen. “Fuck, I forgot. I met your, um, adoptive mom, right?”

“Foster mom,” I correct him. Suddenly, it’s easy to take a sip. The whiskey burns down my throat, igniting a deeper thirst. I take another drink.

“Sorry, none of my business.” But I can tell he’s curious.

“They’re dead,” I say flatly. It’s almost the truth. I’m only half lying, and they both might as well be dead for all I care.

“Fuck.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. That’s rough.”

Given the worst thing that’s ever happened to Cyrus Eaton was probably dinging his BMW, I doubt he can relate. I don’t hold it against him. Why would I want another human to live through the death of their mother—let alone their mother’s murder? But I wish he didn’t feel the need to sympathize. He doesn’t get it. He never will. His platitudes are meaningless.

Silence falls between us, and I think he expects me to fill it in with the story of their tragic deaths or some shit. No way am I falling down that hellhole.

“Another?” Cyrus asks, holding out the bottle.

I thrust my cup toward him, remembering what Adair said about her mother. Drinking is to escape. I’ll drink to that, because I’ve never wanted out more in my life.

We make short work of the bottle. Cyrus provides the entertainment, telling me about every ridiculous birthday party he’s been to at Windfall. He’s just wrapping up the story of the year an interactive haunted house went terribly wrong as we polish off the last of the whiskey.

“You two have known each other a long time.” I like the way my head feels, fuzzy like the old television set Francie kept in the kitchen—so old it used a shitty antenna to pick up the local news.

“We’ve known each other the longest, since like diapers. Most of our friends moved here later, but we’ve always been here.” He tries to pour himself more and frowns when a single drop plops into his glass. “We’re out.”

“Let’s get more.” There appears to be no shortage of booze at Windfall.

“I hated her,” Cyrus says as we trip down the hall, the sound of the party growing louder with each step. “When we were kids, I mean. She was a snot.”

“Ha! Was!” I clap a hand over my mouth, realizing I let this escape.

Cyrus only laughs. “She’s better than a lot of them.”

“Not as nice as Poppy,” I remind him.

“You sure you don’t want to date Poppy?” He raises two eyebrows. Or maybe it’s only one. Or maybe there’s two of him. It’s hard to decide, because things are getting a little blurry around me.

“I belong to Adair MacLaine,” I tell him, “for now.”

“What?” he asks.

I wave him off. “Nothing.”

Before he can press me for more details, we step inside the atrium to discover everyone is still crowded in a semi-circle around Adair. She’s smiling widely and holding something in the air. A purse, maybe? It’s hard to make-out.

“She’s still unwrapping presents?”

“A lot of guests. The girls always have to open every present and fall all over whoever gave it,” he explains.

“And you don’t?”