Lost King by Piper Lennox (best self help books to read .TXT) 📕

“Wish I wasn’t.” He folds his arms and leans his weight on the railing, eyes on the pitch-black void of the horizon. “She shaved her head to pretend she went through chemo, and had all these fake doctor reports printed up.”

His brow gets heavy, jaw locking tight again. “But the pregnancy one, that hit my Dad the hardest. He knew she was faking; none of the details lined up or made sense. But he wanted to believe her so much. He always wanted more kids, and for me to have siblings. So when she pretended to lose it…that was the last straw. It finally hit him that he couldn’t trust her.”

The venom in his voice, even though it’s not meant for me, seeps into my veins. I wish I hadn’t declined that wine refill. “She lied to you guys about it all, too? Not just for the blog?”

“Yep. Mother and Wife of the Fucking Millennium.”

I stare at my hands, braided together on the railing. His, meanwhile, grip it hard enough to crush the whole thing.

“Sounds like she was mentally ill,” I offer, even though I don’t want to defend what she did. It’s more for Theo’s sake.

“She was,” he nods. “Is. Dad tried to get her therapy a hundred fucking times, but she didn’t want help. And the lying just got worse.” He runs his tongue over his teeth with a long inhale. “When she finally left to be with her investor? She justified it on the blog by claiming my dad was abusing her. Crafted all these fake bruises and injury photos.”

“What?”

“Yeah.” Theo laughs, but in that way you would when you’re struggling to not flip a table or punch someone out. “Those posts got him in a lot of trouble with the law, until he could disprove all the claims. Almost lost his job in the meantime. Lost a lot of friends. It wasn’t enough for her to just leave: she had to wreck our whole fucking life on her way out.”

He glances at me. “So the way you feel about cheaters? That’s how I feel about liars.”

The air turns acrid, even though we couldn’t ask for a more gorgeous night. My heart pounds in my chest, while his words drill through my head.

He hates liars.

He hates you.

Mercifully, a cold breeze skates off the water, right into our faces. Theo shivers and rubs the chill from his nose. I face the wind head-on and breathe until my pulse calms down.

“After that,” he says, “I stopped believing anything she had to say.”

He gets quiet. In the silence, I hear him swallow.

“Including that she loved me. None of her actions backed it up, so....” His words stumble over themselves, tangled in a breath as he stares at the rocks below.

The expression on his face stabs my heart. In it, I can perfectly picture Theo at thirteen, struggling to make sense of something more incomprehensible than anything else on this earth: how a parent can not love their child.

“Maybe she did love you.” I say this not because I believe it, but because I want Theo to. Desperately. “In her own way.”

He shakes his head. The green glow from the pool catches the film on his eyes.

“Does your mom love you?” he asks, suddenly.

“Yes.”

“And how do you know?”

I think a moment, then shrug, pulling the blankets around myself tighter. “I just...do.”

“Exactly.” Theo cracks his knuckles, then tucks his chapping hands under his armpits, shivering deeply. “When someone loves you right, there’s no room for doubt.”

I can’t argue with that, much as I want to. No matter how intense the urge is to make his pain smaller, I know I can’t.

With another shiver, he stalks away from the railing. “Let’s go inside.”

I shake my head as he tries to lead me to the backdoor, then point to the poolhouse. “Play something for me.”

The anger leaves his face, but I know it’s still there. It’s always there.

I carry a similar brand for my dad. Like the last drops of poison in a vial, we keep it tucked away where it can be ignored, but never forgotten.

While we walk to the poolhouse, he pulls me into his side. His mouth presses against my temple, like if he inhales the scent of me long enough, the vial will seal itself shut.

It must work. Once he’s seated at the piano, his shoulders are loose, his voice is soft, and the waiting glance he gives me is that clear, sparkling emerald.

“What am I playing for you, tonight?”

Dragging the blankets with me, I join him on the bench.

“‘American Pie,’” I tell him. Her favorite.

He hums a moment, then places his hands on the keys.

He plays.

I shut my eyes. In his style, the familiar notes have that feeling of a person you know, trapped in one you don’t. Or that feeling of going home, but knowing you’ll never again find it how you left it.

Maybe that’s just how the song makes me feel, nowadays. I think it’s how I feel about her.

When it’s done, he rubs my back in slow circles. He doesn’t ask who this song was for. He simply waits.

“My mom has M.S.” My head finds his shoulder, then his chest when he turns to pull me into himself, straddling the bench so I fit better. “She was diagnosed six years ago, and it…it’s really aggressive. More than the doctors predicted it would be. She’s declined so fast, they’re telling her to prepare for a wheelchair, a feeding tube….”

He nods, so I don’t have to finish the sentence. I’m glad. My aunt can talk about Mom’s eventual incapacitation like it’s a deadline so far in