Gamed (A Standalone Romance Novel) (Bad Boy Romance) (3 page)

Once inside, I
headed straight for my bedroom and curled up in the middle of my four poster
bed. For a moment, I felt like the time in high school when I got sick at camp
and had to get picked up early. Sienna was still there having fun, and I was
stuck in our thick-carpeted, quiet house by myself. I clung to that bittersweet
memory, the idea that Sienna would be home soon with fun summer stories to
tell.

When I woke up,
the light was a hot glow, but I could tell by the shadows that it was late
afternoon. I lay still and wished the nightmare would end. Now, awake felt like
the bad dream and asleep was my only relief.

I could not hide
out forever, so I brushed my hair, tied it back in a loose ponytail, and headed
downstairs. I reached the last step and heard my mother call from the kitchen.

"Darling,
have you seen the Bloody Mary mix? Oh, never mind, I found it," she
trilled.

I walked into the
kitchen to find her dancing around the kitchen island, mixing a dark red Bloody
Mary and filling it with an array of vegetables. "A light snack?" I
asked.

"Oh, Quinn,
dear, Daddy said you were home. He told me you've been skipping classes
lately," my mother said.
 

I poured a hefty
shot of vodka into a tall glass and mixed my own Bloody Mary. My mother stabbed
radishes onto toothpicks and affixed them to a celery stalk, a makeshift rose
garnish. She hesitated as she handed me one, forgetting for the moment that I
was of drinking age.

"It’s your
sister that doesn't like these," my mother said.

"She's not, I
mean, she was not a big drinker," I observed. I held the glass to my lips,
unable to drink for the lump in my throat.

"And yet
she's forever going to parties. How does she manage it?" my mother asked. "I
still don't understand how that girl can balance her surgical studies, a busy
social life, and that boyfriend of hers."

"Maybe she couldn’t
handle it," I said, my voice wavering. "Maybe it was too much for her
and someone should have told her to slow down, take it easy, and not put so
much pressure on herself."

"Please, I
know you don't spend a lot of time with your sister, but you know what Sienna's
like. She can handle anything." My mother brushed back her blonde hair and
took a long, satisfied sip.

"Daddy said
you weren't feeling well," I said.

Her eyes went dim,
deflecting the question. "Oh, you know, I just felt a little out of sorts,
but now I'm fine."

I eyed the drink
in her hand. "Did you take something?"

"Quinn,
please, what kind of question is that? I didn't need to take anything. I just
feel better. Now, enough talk about me. When are you going to find yourself a
boyfriend? I'm sure your sister's boyfriend knows lots of eligible guys,"
my mother said.

"It’s not
like we can go on double dates," I said. The drink was suddenly too heavy.
I set it down on the counter and slumped into one of the swiveling bar stools
next to the kitchen island.

"Why not? I
know Sienna's busy, but she can make time to set you up. You need someone. I'll
give her a call," my mother said.

As she reached for
her phone, the realization crashed over me: my father had not yet told her. I
was so frozen with dread that I sat dumbfounded as she called Sienna's number.

"Hello, dear,
I know you're busy, but take just a minute to listen to a message from your
mommy. I've got Quinn here and she is moping around. Honestly, she looks as if
someone's died. I'm hoping you have time for one of your wonderful sister
make-overs. Maybe Owen could find her a date for this weekend? You could double
for dinner and then split up? Think about it, darling. You know how she depends
on you. Love! Kisses!"

I still could not
move when my father walked into the kitchen. He was just as shocked as I was
when my mother bounced over and kissed him on the cheek. "Barbara, I
thought you were still upstairs. You're feeling better? Did you take
something?"

"Why does
everyone ask me that? So I slept in a little this morning and wasn't a ray of
sunshine. I'm fine."

"Daddy?"
I asked. The rest of the words stuck in my throat.

My father turned
to me with a hard look. "Your mother's right, she's fine. Let her enjoy
her drink."

"You can't,
you can't make me be the one that does it," I said. "You have to tell
her now."

"Tell me
what?" my mother asked with a bright smile.

"You just
want everyone to be as miserable as you, don't you, Quinn?" my father
asked. "Ever since you were young, you did just as you pleased. Your
sister was the one that knew how to take responsibility. She knew how to live
up to expectations and be grateful for every opportunity she got."

"Tell her or
I will!"

"Now,
Barbara, why don't you sit down?" my father said in his best soothing
voice. "There's some bad news about Sienna. I can hardly believe it
myself. I didn't know how to tell you and I wanted to wait until you felt better."

"Sienna? Is
she alright?" my mother shoved her empty glass onto the counter and hung
on to the edge with both hands.

My father
struggled to get his voice to work. "Sienna…Sienna committed suicide last
night."

My mother sank to
the floor as a keening wail rose from her lips. I jumped down from my stool and
ran around the counter to sit with her on the floor. She bumped her head back
against the cupboard, her eyes screwed shut tightly.

"I didn't
believe it at first," my father said. "I still don't believe it. How
could she do that? How could she throw away all her accomplishments, all her
goals?"

"Oh, my sweet
girl, oh, my sweet, sweet girl. I know. I know how it feels," my mother
whispered to herself.

"Mommy?"
I took her hand.

She yanked it
away. "You don't understand, poor Quinn, you're like him. Sienna was
always like me. She felt things the same way – felt the burning, felt the
falling, felt the soaring."

"Can we talk
about that?" I asked. "I think we need to talk about that."

My mother
scrambled to her feet and flung herself at my father. "You promised she
would be okay. You promised me she could handle it. Everything was fine, Sienna
was always fine. Lies! Now, I know you lied. It's all my fault. My beautiful,
sweet girl," my mother cried.

I stayed on the
floor, cringing as my mother flailed her manicured fists at my father's chest.

"Barbara, you
need to go lie down. You've had a shock."

"A shock? Why
am I the only one that isn't shocked at all? You think people can just
magically brush themselves off and be just fine. Well, that might work for you
and maybe for Quinn, but not everyone's as heartless as you two," my
mother said.

"Everyone
grieves in their own way," my father said. He caught hold of my mother's
wrists and pulled her towards the door. "It’s no use falling to pieces,
its
already done and we can't do anything to change
it."

"She's not
dead, she can't be. You're just a cruel man playing a cruel joke," my
mother said. She yanked her wrists free and spun away from my father. Then, she
grabbed her phone and marched out the other kitchen door.

I sat on the floor
listening to my father's angry breathing as we heard my mother leave another
voicemail on Sienna's phone.

"Are you
happy?" he finally said to me. He slammed a fist on the counter and walked
out.

By the time I
managed to stand up, the house was silent. My mother was back in her bedroom
suite, my father was in his office, and I was alone in the rest of the
stretching square footage.

My mother was not
shocked that Sienna had taken her own life. That idea blinked in my brain like
the starting cursor of a video game. Was there some sign I had missed? Was
there something I could have done?

My legs were heavy
as I dragged myself up the stairs to Sienna's room. It had to be my fault. We
weren't close, but we were sisters and I should have known if she was feeling
so desperate.

Her room was as
neat and tidy as always. The Tiffany blue walls and white furniture glowed in
the sunset light. Instead of an old-fashioned four poster bed like mine, Sienna
had a queen-size bed with a white satin tufted headboard. The comforter was an
intricate swirl of pastel paisley. I sat on the edge of her bed, careful not to
crease it.

I needed her
there. Sienna never sat around helpless. I could see her marching into her room
and scolding me. She would have gone straight to her computer and researched
the reasons, both psychological and physical, behind suicide.

I wondered if she
had researched it before she did it. I should have looked on her computer in
her dorm room. Sienna probably looked up a dozen case studies the moment the
thought of suicide crossed her mind.

And still, she did
it. The thought made me dizzy, and I let myself slip to the floor.

I leaned back
against her bed and felt the sharp edge of something stick me in the back. Reaching
under her bed, I pulled out a photograph album she had made her senior year of
high school. I opened it up, welcoming the sweet relief that happy memories
brought.

The first picture
was Sienna leading the cheerleader charge onto the football field. Except it
was not her red-lipped smile or glowing golden hair that caught my attention. In
the far background was a tall blond boy leaning on the fence next to a gangly
girl with long wavy hair.

Owen Redd liked to
watch the football games from the sidelines instead of the stands. He liked
chatting with people more than yelling silly epithets at the field. One time,
Sienna had begged me to bring her a different pair of shoes, and I had bumped
into Owen at the fence.

Instead of
football scores and finals, we talked about
Halo
and
Assassin's Creed
. He didn't laugh
when I asked questions about strategy. Instead, he explained in detail the
successful maneuvers he had done.

Sienna laughed
when she found us. "Aren't you two the perfect pair? Too bad Redd looks
better on me."

She knew. Sienna
knew that night at the football game that I had the most helpless crush on
Owen. I could still feel the thrill of his hand accidentally brushing mine as
he described good sequences.

I never understood
why they were together. Sienna was more annoyed than enamored by most things
that Owen loved. He mocked her cheerleading. And I remembered when she got him
voted prom king, he was so irritated that he brought her home and left without
saying goodbye.

At the thought of
goodbye, I slammed the photograph album shut. How could I say goodbye to my
sister?

#

It
was easy to pretend I was still in high school. The house was quiet when I
emerged from Sienna's room. It could have been any one of hundreds of nights
when our mother had retreated to her room, my father had shut himself in his
office, and Sienna was out. She was always busy, always doing something.

The only one that
was ever around was our cook. I found her in the kitchen looking the same as
she had for decades: a white shirt, black pants, and a red apron. Her riotous
black curly hair was secured in a prim bun and blue eyes sparkled as she sang.

"No one told
you," I said, the weight pushing me back onto a stool.

"I sing when
I'm sad, too," the cook told me. "It helps.
Wanna
try?"

"You know I
can't carry a tune. Sienna is – was the singer."

The cook put down
her red spatula and propped her fists on her hips. "You know you never
have to refer to her in the past tense, don't you? Sienna’s memory is just as
alive as anyone else outside this room if we talk about her."

"I don't feel
like talking, Charlotte," I said.

"And you
don't feel like singing. How about baking?" Charlotte asked.

I smiled. I loved
to bake. It did not hurt that it was the one thing I did better than Sienna.

Sienna had come
home from a cheerleading meeting one year and announced an impressive list of
things she was going to personally bake for their fundraiser. After two minutes
of baking, in which flour got in her hair, she crushed a raw egg in her hands,
and the top fell off the ground cinnamon, she declared that baking was a waste
of time.

That night,
Charlotte taught me to bake the easiest, silkiest, and best buttery sugar
cookies. We decorated them with a light lemon frosting and glittery sprinkles. Of
course, Sienna took all the credit and they sold out in minutes.

"We're going
to need a good dessert table for the, ah, for the guests," Charlotte said.

I nodded, my voice
gone again. She meant we needed desserts for the reception that would invariably
follow the funeral. Still, Charlotte's practicality was comforting as I settled
into the regular routine of the sugar cookie recipe.