Romance: TOXIC (Forbidden, Pregnancy, Taboo Romance, Stepbrother Romance, New Adult Short Stories) by Celia Styles
Authors: Celia Styles
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TOXIC
By Celia Styles
When my mom broke the news over Spring Break that she was going to get married again, I have to confess that I wasn’t exactly thrilled for her. I told her it was a mistake, that he couldn’t possibly love her the way my father did and all that, but mostly I was afraid that she’d disappear into a world of designer dresses and limousines, a world that I’d always watched on TV but never dared to think that I could be a part of. I looked the part, sure--long blonde hair that curled in those perfect ringlets that women spend hundreds of dollars trying to blow out (or would that be blow in?)--and wide blue eyes. I ran cross-country in high school and in the junior-varsity team for my college. If you dressed me up in a designer dress you'd have no problem putting me in a five-star restaurant, until I opened my mouth. But I couldn't afford designer dresses, so that world might as well have been in Bangladesh for all I could care.
“Him”: Bryce Rowan Waterhouse III, a very rich man. That was about all I knew about him for sure. He was some kind of investor who did “things” with large quantities of money. I met him for the first time the day after finals, when he drove up in front of a U-Haul to help me move out of my room. He at least had the good sense to be embarrassed that everything I owned fit neatly into the trunk of his car. We didn’t talk on the way home--to our humble little ranch house in the suburbs of Trenton. He didn’t belong in our world, and we didn’t belong in his.
He paid for the wedding. He flew the entire wedding party to Hawaii and put us up in a resort hotel for the entire week, all so that they could have a sunrise wedding on the beach. I, surly and annoyed at all these changes being made without any consideration for my own plans--tutoring kids in Princeton over the summer, finding a job somewhere while getting a master’s so that I could teach high school--found the gesture pointless. At least the wedding was a small, intimate ceremony, and I recognized a lot of my mom’s friends there. Seeing her walk down the aisle, though, I realized that I couldn’t hate him--so much of this was done the way my mom had always wanted her wedding to be, right down to the wispy, pastel tie-dyed dress and a white wreath of flowers in her hair. But it didn’t make it any easier to believe my mother was now Anne Mayberry Waterhouse, even as they read their wedding vows, even as they exchanged rings, even as he kissed the bride.
After the ceremony, both sides of the aisle mingled a bit, but only for a little while--the scorching tropical sun was starting to penetrate the canopies we were sitting under, and the promise of air-conditioning and icy margaritas drew us all back to the hotel like bees to honey. The official reception would be that evening, and I was already grumpy about it.
“Hey, it’s a wedding. Cheer up,” said a voice.
I looked up. The voice belonged to a surfer, which was surprising enough. Even more surprising was that I found myself really wanting to like him for some reason. It could have had something to do with the fact that he was wearing a sleeveless wetsuit that showed off his sculpted arms and left little doubt about the condition of the body that was underneath. Between the sun and the salt water, though, his hair had turned an odd greenish-brown that resembled nothing so much as vomit. But that was something I'd only notice later, lost as I was in those twinkling brown eyes that seemed to exude smiles. “You’ve been watching?” I said.
“Not really,” he said, shifting his board to the other side so that he could accompany me on the way back. “Usually I’m the only one out here at this ungodly hour.”
“You got the ‘ungodly’ part right,” I agreed. “I hope I never have to see 6:00 am for the rest of the summer. What’re you doing up at this hour?”
He laughed.
By Celia Styles
When my mom broke the news over Spring Break that she was going to get married again, I have to confess that I wasn’t exactly thrilled for her. I told her it was a mistake, that he couldn’t possibly love her the way my father did and all that, but mostly I was afraid that she’d disappear into a world of designer dresses and limousines, a world that I’d always watched on TV but never dared to think that I could be a part of. I looked the part, sure--long blonde hair that curled in those perfect ringlets that women spend hundreds of dollars trying to blow out (or would that be blow in?)--and wide blue eyes. I ran cross-country in high school and in the junior-varsity team for my college. If you dressed me up in a designer dress you'd have no problem putting me in a five-star restaurant, until I opened my mouth. But I couldn't afford designer dresses, so that world might as well have been in Bangladesh for all I could care.
“Him”: Bryce Rowan Waterhouse III, a very rich man. That was about all I knew about him for sure. He was some kind of investor who did “things” with large quantities of money. I met him for the first time the day after finals, when he drove up in front of a U-Haul to help me move out of my room. He at least had the good sense to be embarrassed that everything I owned fit neatly into the trunk of his car. We didn’t talk on the way home--to our humble little ranch house in the suburbs of Trenton. He didn’t belong in our world, and we didn’t belong in his.
He paid for the wedding. He flew the entire wedding party to Hawaii and put us up in a resort hotel for the entire week, all so that they could have a sunrise wedding on the beach. I, surly and annoyed at all these changes being made without any consideration for my own plans--tutoring kids in Princeton over the summer, finding a job somewhere while getting a master’s so that I could teach high school--found the gesture pointless. At least the wedding was a small, intimate ceremony, and I recognized a lot of my mom’s friends there. Seeing her walk down the aisle, though, I realized that I couldn’t hate him--so much of this was done the way my mom had always wanted her wedding to be, right down to the wispy, pastel tie-dyed dress and a white wreath of flowers in her hair. But it didn’t make it any easier to believe my mother was now Anne Mayberry Waterhouse, even as they read their wedding vows, even as they exchanged rings, even as he kissed the bride.
After the ceremony, both sides of the aisle mingled a bit, but only for a little while--the scorching tropical sun was starting to penetrate the canopies we were sitting under, and the promise of air-conditioning and icy margaritas drew us all back to the hotel like bees to honey. The official reception would be that evening, and I was already grumpy about it.
“Hey, it’s a wedding. Cheer up,” said a voice.
I looked up. The voice belonged to a surfer, which was surprising enough. Even more surprising was that I found myself really wanting to like him for some reason. It could have had something to do with the fact that he was wearing a sleeveless wetsuit that showed off his sculpted arms and left little doubt about the condition of the body that was underneath. Between the sun and the salt water, though, his hair had turned an odd greenish-brown that resembled nothing so much as vomit. But that was something I'd only notice later, lost as I was in those twinkling brown eyes that seemed to exude smiles. “You’ve been watching?” I said.
“Not really,” he said, shifting his board to the other side so that he could accompany me on the way back. “Usually I’m the only one out here at this ungodly hour.”
“You got the ‘ungodly’ part right,” I agreed. “I hope I never have to see 6:00 am for the rest of the summer. What’re you doing up at this hour?”
He laughed.
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