Forbidden by Abbie Williams Page B

people might say if anyone were to ever know what had happened between them… Jesus Christ in heaven . This was something she would never even so much as breathe a word of to Trish, who knew every last thing that had happened to Bryce since the dawning of their friendship. Trish would skin her alive for even continuing to admit to her desire for him. Put a goddamn cork in it, Bryce! she heard her best friend snap at her. This went way beyond messing around on Wade, which was a forgivable offense, as both girls were quite certain Wade hadn’t always been faithful. Trish’s voice again came into Bryce’s memory, asking for the hundreth time, What are you doing with Wade, anyway? But even dear, forgiving Trish would have trouble accepting Bryce’s feelings at present. Because despite everything, Matthew was her uncle, her relative, no matter how very much she desired him. Trish would kill her. Matthew’s family would kill him.
    â€œBryce, honey, you don’t mind riding out to the cemetery with me, do you?” Erica was asking her, and Bryce snapped back to attention, praying her aunt hadn’t noticed the way she had been staring out the window at Matthew as he loaded the kids into the truck.
    Minutes later Erica was driving south of town, Bryce in the passenger seat, a cold soda balanced between her legs. Erica promised they would grab something to eat on the way back. Bryce didn’t mind. The air felt good rushing into the cab of the small red Ford that Erica drove, and she wasn’t exactly hungry anyway: the grand tour of the campground, courtesy of Riley, had included no shortage of stories about past escapades the family had faced owning the place, including a tipped outhouse that Riley had gone into great detail about.
    â€œBryce,” Erica suddenly said, in a tone that made the younger woman sit up straight on the seat. “May I ask you something?”
    Oh Jesus, oh shit . But Erica went on, “Tell me about Michelle. Is she okay these days?”
    Bryce almost blew out a sigh of relief, and slumped her spine slightly against the tan vinyl. How to respond to that? “She’s the same as she’s ever been,” she finally said, staring out the window into the sun-drenched landscape, but seeing the Wagon Box Court before her eyes, the interior of the trailer she’d called home for as long as she could recall. She decided not to sugar-coat things, certain Erica was not fan of bullshit, and could probably smell it a mile away.
    â€œHow has she been as a mother to you?” Erica went on, staring down the road. She’d reserved this conversation for a moment like this, when Bryce was trapped beside her but not forced to make eye contact, a trick Erica had learned over the years.
    Bryce plucked at the neck of her t-shirt, which felt suddenly damp and clingy. She swallowed the excuses, then found that she couldn’t bring any words forth. Erica said softly, “That bad, huh?”
    Bryce shook her head mutely; how could she possibly explain to this woman how it felt to see your mother’s blood gushing onto the floor of the kitchen, or filling the bathtub? How it felt to be disregarded, untouched and certainly never praised, ignored or screamed at through a blue-gray haze of cigarette smoke? For the first time all day, Bryce craved a smoke so badly her fingers twitched. Erica couldn’t possibly understand: she loved her children deeply, that was obvious.
    Erica let it rest and they drove for another 10 minutes in silence, until she made a right-hand turn through a wrought-iron gate someone had painted white. Rose Lake Cemetery was written in scrollwork across the top, and the older woman slowed to a crawl as they entered the tree-filled space, which seemed populated only by dust motes this lazy afternoon. Bryce hung her right arm out the window, studying the acres of gravestones, some of which appeared to be older than this century. Moments later