Limerence: A Dark Romance (Fated Fixation Book 1)
Limerence: Chapter 25

The house no longer feels safe, not with the possibility of Ian Creasey hanging around, which is why I don’t come out of my room till I hear the screen door crack open and soft, worn sneakers squeaking across the kitchen floor.

Mom.

“Poppy.” She sweeps me into her arms, and not even eight hours of frying oil and bacon grease can completely conceal the scent of her vanilla perfume, the one she wears because Rick likes it. “You made it.”

“Safe and sound.”

She pulls back and brushes the hair out of my face, a quiet chuckle escaping her. “Oh, look at that! You’re getting a wrinkle.”

“A wrinkle?”

She taps me on the forehead. “Well, if you keep creasing like that, you’ll just make it worse.”

“I’m eighteen, Mom. I don’t think I have a wrinkle,” I retort, but I still have to smother the instinct to dash off to the bathroom and see if she’s right.

A minute in, and she’s already found something to criticize.

She shrugs in response, but her lips curl into an amused smile – the kind she always seems to get whenever she knows she’s gotten under my skin. “Hey, it’s not my fault, honey. You can thank your father for that. You’ve definitely got his skin.”

I can feel the conversation teetering on dangerous territory, so I switch gears. “You look tired, Mom,” I say. “Have you been getting enough sleep?” It’s not even meant to be a snipe – her brown eyes are dull and her skin has a sallow tint to it, but the real indicator of her exhaustion are the dark brown roots creeping down her scalp.

Because as soon as I was old enough to receive compliments on the ashy shade of my hair, my mother has been bleaching hers. She got it from me, she’d tell people. My little twin.

Hers or not, she’s never shied away from taking credit for my best physical features while leaving everything else for my father.

“Well, I have been picking up extra shifts at the diner lately. One of the cooks quit a few months ago, so we’re understaffed,” she sighs. “And the tips have been terrible. Nobody’s feeling generous when the wait time’s longer than thirty minutes.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. Maybe I can pick up something this –”

“No, no, no,” she waves me off. “It’ll all work itself out. Besides, you’ve got to get back to that big, fancy boarding school, don’t you? You worry about those free massages and mani-pedis, honey. I can take care of myself.” I flinch as she turns away.

She’s always got to have the last word.

Mom discards the decorative apron – the one that says Mobile’s Finest Burgers! – onto the back of a kitchen chair just as Rick strolls into view.

“Oh, honey!” Mom visibly lights up and leans over to give him a lingering kiss on the cheek. “How was your day? The house looks great. That was so nice of you to clean up.”

Rick grunts in agreement, and after all that’s happened today, I replace it surprisingly easy to brush off the twinge of annoyance that Rick’s taking credit for what I did.

“What’s for dinner?” Rick asks.

“Well…” Mom turns to me. “What’re you feeling, sweetie? It’s your first night home. You pick.”

I shrug. “Something simple is fine. How about a grilled cheese? It’s been months since I’ve eaten a piece of bread that isn’t gluten-free.”

Her smile widens. “Well, you’re in luck. I’ve got just enough American cheese left to make it happen.”

That I know. I took a peek in the cabinets while I was on dish duty, so I’m aware of just how low we are on groceries.

She glances at Rick. “That sound okay, honey?”

“You know I don’t like putting that crap in my body,” he says gruffly, as if his beer gut hasn’t been inflating like a basketball for the past four years. “You said you were going to make chicken sliders.”

Mom frowns. “Well, we’re out of chicken and I’d need some proper buns…”

Rick pops open his beer can.

“But I could run to the store,” she continues. “See if they have something on sale.” Her gaze flickers to me. “Would you be okay with sliders over a grilled cheese, Poppy?”

It shouldn’t upset me.

It’s such a small thing to concede – except that I’m always conceding.

And not just to Rick. As much as I’d like to believe he’s pumping out nicotine-tainted pheromones to keep my mother under his spell, she’s always done this. With Ed. With Steven. With James. The first place slot in Mom’s life has never belonged to me.

But I swallow down my anger and muster a smile because I’ve got three weeks left in this house, and as much as I’d like it to be, landing in second place is not my biggest problem right now. “Sliders are fine. In fact, why don’t I go to the store for you? You just got off work. You’re clearly tired. There’s no reason you need to be running out for anyone’s dinner preferences.”

Even Rick catches that dig, but whatever he mutters under his breath as he heads for the living room, I don’t hear.

“That would be very helpful, honey.”

I nod and grab the car keys, but she snags me by the sleeve. “And Poppy?”

“Hm?”

She leans in close, her mouth dipping into a frown. “I know you two don’t always agree, but you just got here. Please don’t antagonize your step-father.”

As if Rick has a paternal bone in his body.

It takes significant effort to avoid bristling at the label.

Not my biggest problem, remember?

So, instead of trying to convince Mom to see my side, I point the conversation in a useful direction. “Do you know why Ian Creasey is helping Rick with some of his…” I hesitate to call the scrap metal lying in the garage work. “…stuff?”

She blinks at the subject change. “Oh. Ian. Right! Rick’s been trying to get this vintage bike up and runnin’ for months. I told you, remember? On the phone?”

I offer her a blank stare. If she’d mentioned Ian’s name in the last few years, I’d remember.

She sighs again. “You never listen to me, Poppy. He’s friends with John Creasey, who recommended Ian. He’s a whip-smart kid, and apparently, restores old vehicles for extra cash.”

“I see.”

“You should check it out, Poppy,” she continues. “I mean, they’ve made so much progress. Rick credits it all to Ian’s involvement, but I think he’s just too modest to…”

I tune out her enthusiastic praise for Rick, knowing it’s more than she’s ever gushed about anything I’ve ever done and ask, “So…Ian. He’s here a lot? In the garage?”

Rick said a couple times a week, but Mom’s a far more reliable source than he’ll ever be.

“Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays,” she answers. “According to Rick, ever since school let out for holiday break, he’s had a lot more time to dedicate to the project.”

I nod.

Three days a week. That’s not terrible.

I’m sure I can manage to avoid the trailer for three days a week.

“Why’re you so interested in Ian, anyway?” She asks, and then her eyes light up. “You think he’s cute or somethin’?”

I vehemently shake my head.

The last thing I need is Mom trying to play match-maker with Ian fucking Creasey.

“I’m not. I just wasn’t expecting to replace a teenage boy lurking around the garage, that’s all.” I jingle the car keys and step toward the door, determined to make a quick exit.

Mom hums, as if digesting this explanation, before asking, “Didn’t you two used to go to school together?”

I freeze five-feet from the front door.

“Not at Lionswood, of course,” she continues, “But middle-school or somethin’, right?”

The last thing I want to do is reaffirm that I know Ian Creasey at all, but certain parts of Mobile County are smaller than others, and it’ll only look more suspicious if I deny it altogether.

“Yeah.” I rub the back of my neck. “Just middle-school. We weren’t friends or anything. We weren’t even in the same classes.”

Which is true. While the rest of us were scratching our heads over basic algebra, Ian got shipped off to the local high school for the second half of his day, already breezing through geometry classes.

I know this because, while I’ve never said a word to Ian Creasey, I know exactly how smart he is.

***

I spend most of Thursday trying to sketch in my room, but I replace myself far more drawn to my phone than I am to anything on the page.

It’s been almost four days, and Adrian hasn’t reached out. Not a phone call, not a text, not even a smoke signal in the sky to let me know that he hasn’t perished in a plane crash.

Not that it’s bothering me. Not at all.

After all, I’m the one who wanted space. To think. To digest the last three months of my life without him hovering nearby, buying me dresses and bags and spinning silver-tongued promises in my ear.

It’s just weird.

At Lionswood, he made it a point to infiltrate every part of my life, only to vanish into thin air the moment we stepped off campus grounds.

Maybe he’s changed his mind about me.

It’s a fleeting thought, but…

Not an entirely ridiculous one.

After all, it took a split second for Adrian to decide his interest had transformed from friendly to romantic. Who’s to say he might decide I’m just not worth it after a little space of his own?

My chest tightens to an almost painful degree.

Where would I be if he suddenly woke up and decided he wanted nothing to do with me? Either dead and buried beneath all the secrets that got me there – or, at the very least, back to square one. An outsider with nothing to fill her days but secondhand gossip and schoolwork.

Somehow, the first scenario is less depressing than the latter.

God, what’s wrong with me? I’m acting like…

Well, I’m acting like my mother, which is terrifying enough to snap me out of any rumination on the subject. I don’t need Adrian. I don’t need his gifts or his attention or his newfound obsession.

As if on cue, my phone dings and I squash the pang of disappointment when I realize the notification’s just from Mom.

Great.

It hasn’t even been a week and Rick’s already chomping at the bit for excuses to get me kicked out early. I can only imagine that my momentary freak-out in the garage a few days ago just served as ammunition.

He’s probably been feeding Mom all sorts of stories about drug-induced paranoia and mood swings under the guise of the paternal concern she so badly wants him to have – and now, I’ll need to spend the better part of tonight convincing her I’m not the impaired one in this household.

Just because I need to play nice for three weeks doesn’t mean I’m letting him get away with this.

Anger simmers in my veins as I consider my choices for retaliation. I could throw out his beer, but knowing Rick, he’ll just get more from a buddy or sacrifice Mom’s grocery budget for a new case.

But his cigarettes.

Rick’s smoking habit has been a point of contention between him and Mom for ages, and if his stockpile in the garage were to vanish, I doubt she’d fund a new one.

I’m on my feet and headed for the garage before I can talk myself out of it. Rick’s not here, I know that. I heard his archaic pickup truck slumbering up the drive about an hour ago.

The cigarettes are right where I expect them to be too: lodged in the second drawer of his toolbox behind the adjustable wrenches. Three full packs of Pall Malls ripe for the taking.

If you’re going to say I’m on drugs, I might as well take yours.

Fueled by spite, I seize the cigarettes, debating where and how I should dispose of them, when a new voice stops me cold.

“Did I just walk in on a cigarette heist?”

Oh, fuck.

I’ve only heard it a few times in my life, but I’d recognize the crackly pitch of Ian Creasey’s voice anywhere. Even at eighteen, he still sounds like he’s growing into it.

A knot of dread forms in my stomach.

Just my fucking luck.

Rick’s not even here, so why the hell is he?

Still, I manage to plaster a shaky smile on my face as I turn around. “Ian. Hey. What are you doing here?”

Eyebrows raised, Ian leans against the open doorframe, bathed in the shadows of the dingy shed. “Well, I got off work early, so I thought I’d stop by. See if Rick wanted to clock a few more hours on the bike.” His green eyes flicker to the dirt bike braced between us and then back to me. “I haven’t seen you around before.”

It brings me a marginal amount of relief that he doesn’t recognize me, but every muscle in my body still tenses with the instinct to bolt.

“I’m Mae’s daughter,” I offer before jostling the cigarettes in my hands. “And these…don’t mention it to Rick, will you?”

“Hey. You don’t need to worry. I’m well-acquainted with Rick.” To my surprise, Ian grins, showcasing the gap between his two front teeth. “I’m guessing whatever you’re doing, he probably deserves it.”

“Thanks.” I offer a grateful smile and attempt to sidle past him.

“Poppy.”

The sound of my own name leaves my stomach sinking like a stone, and reluctantly, I pause.

“Poppy Davis.” He snaps his fingers together. “I remember now. We went to school together, didn’t we?”

My heart hammers.

Fuck.

“Oh, yeah…” I rub the back of my neck. “I guess we did.”

“It’s your hair,” he points out. “It’s been bothering me. I knew I recognized you from somewhere. Your hair’s the same as it was in middle school. White as a ghost.”

I’d do anything to be a ghost right now.

“I used to be able to spot you all the way across the lunchroom,” he adds. “You stick out like a sore thumb.”

“So I’ve been told.”

To my dismay, Ian takes a few steps forward, eyes shining with interest. “You don’t go to Mobile High, do you?”

Reluctantly, I shake my head. “No, uh…I don’t.”

“Where?”

The worst part is, he truly looks just curious, which makes it all the worse. Ian has no idea what I’ve done, what I’ve robbed him of – but the longer I stand around answering his questions, the sooner he might piece it together.

Or he’ll just ask Rick, and who knows what he’ll say.

At least here, with me, I can gauge Ian’s reaction in person.

I swallow. “I go to Lionswood.”

His jaw drops open. “Lionswood? Like Lionswood Prep? In Connecticut?”

“Yeah.” I glance toward the door. “Anyway, I should –”

“You…go to Lionswood? Like the Lionswood?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re not just fuckin’ with me, right?”

Another swallow. I wish I could trade places with one of the rusty screwdrivers on Rick’s workbench. “I’m not.”

His gaze flits from disbelief to shock to something that’s achingly familiar.

Hunger.

It nearly rocks me to my core.

Ian takes a step forward, and I resist the urge to flatten myself against the workbench. “How did you get in?” He asks, and before I can even drum up an answer, he adds, “I mean, the acceptance rate’s less than one percent, and tuition…” He pauses. “You must’ve gotten some sort of scholarship.”

My heart flutters like a hummingbird as I remind myself, once again, that Ian has no idea.

He can’t know.

“Did you have to take the SSAT? What was the application process like?” He presses, and then, as if realizing how many questions he’s managed to fire off in the span of ten seconds, he steps back and sighs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bombard you with all that. It’s just…” He runs a hand through his flaxen hair. “I tried really hard to get into Lionswood a few years ago. The advanced studies counselor thought I’d be able to get in, so I took the SSAT and applied but…” He chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “Well, you can see. Obviously didn’t work out.”

I stare at him, silence blanketing the space between us.

I can’t even count the number of nights I’ve stayed awake, picturing all the ways Ian’s life might’ve turned out if I hadn’t stripped him of his future, and yet, it’s nothing compared to the gut-crushing guilt that comes with seeing it in person.

“I am so, so sorry, Ian.” Shame clogs my throat, and for a moment, I wonder if I’ve given myself away, but he only shakes his head.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says. “It’s nobody’s fault but my own. I’m the one who didn’t test well on the SSAT.” He shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but I can see he still carries those exam results as heavily as I do.

I am a terrible, awful person.

“But the thing is…” He clicks his tongue. “I thought I did.”

I glance at him sharply. “What?”

Ian exhales and leans back, one arm crossed over the other. “It’s just…nobody walks out of a bombed test thinking they got an A-plus, right? On some level, you know you did poorly.”

“I guess.”

“And I studied for months,” he continues. “To walk out of that room thinking I aced that test only to…” His face momentarily falls. “I mean, I did terrible. Like no-private-school-let-alone-Lionswood-is-going-to-take-me bad.”

I wince.

Well, Ian hadn’t done terrible on the SSAT.

I’d done terrible.

“Anyway…” He sighs. “I don’t mean to put this all on you. The fact that anyone from Mobile landed at Lionswood is…” He manages a small smile. “Pretty goddamn impressive.”

There’s nothing impressive about what I’ve done.

It’s like someone’s strapped a boulder to my chest.

Ian’s attempt to make me feel better about his perceived failure only makes me feel worse.

In the end, the only sort of response I can form is a muted, “Thanks.”

Another pause stretches between us, and just as I open my mouth to make a graceful exit, he says, “You know, you’re lucky you didn’t take the SSAT when I did.”

My eyes widen.

“There was this whole…incident,” he explains. “Just as the proctor was taking up the tests. The girl next to me had this massive allergic reaction, and there were teachers and ambulances and crying parents involved…” He scratches at the base of his neck. “She ended up being okay, but everyone had to be ushered out of the room and separated. It was a whole thing.”

I swallow. “Yeah. That sounds…chaotic.”

He chuckles again. “It was. Wish I could blame my bad score on that.”

The unmistakable roar of Rick’s pickup truck cuts through the moment, and a sigh of relief escapes me.

Thank God.

I readjust the cigarettes in my hands. “I should –”

“Oh, no. Definitely,” Ian nods. “I’ll distract Rick. You get out of here.”

Even as I do just that, unease continues to prickle my spine long after I’m locked away in my bedroom, the cigarettes stashed behind my bookcase.

He doesn’t remember.

He actually doesn’t remember.

And the fact that he doesn’t should make me feel better. That interaction could’ve gone a lot worse, and yet, I feel sticky with shame.

Dirty.

I’m the reason he’s not at Lionswood, flourishing like he should be.

And he has no idea.

He doesn’t remember.

Ian might know that I attend his dream school, but he doesn’t seem to remember that I was there that day.

Two rows, three chairs down.

Taking the SSAT just like he was.

And orchestrating the robbery of his future.

A swell of panic burns in my chest.

And now I just have to sit, wait, and hope he never pieces it all together.