The Evolution of Man (The Trust Fund Duet 2)

Thick night air. The smell of exhaust. The muted sound of a car door, and then I’m in the back of a limo, still ensconced in Sutton’s arms. He doesn’t try to stop me from crying.

“You left,” I finally manage to say, my voice heavy with tears. Drenched with them.

He holds me a little tighter. “I came back.”

Freida is kind enough to pretend like it’s ordinary to arrive home completely disheveled, my dress stained with something mysterious, my eyes red and puffy from crying. She gives me the information for the evening, what my mother ate, what she didn’t eat, with a completely straight face—which is all the more impressive when I actually look in the mirror.

“I really have to shower first,” I say with a groan. Mascara has made track marks down my cheeks. I look like a girl in a horror movie who’s been running for her life and about to die. “She’ll call the police if she sees me like this. You can go home now.”

Sutton shakes his head. He doesn’t seem himself, not quite as assured, but he looks very certain about this. “I’m staying until you go to bed.”

I give him a sideways look. “You hoping for a round two?”

A faint smile. “Always.”

Maybe Christopher was right about him. Maybe a hundred women have fallen in love with Sutton. I’m just one in a long line. Does that make it any less real? “Well, Freida

makes a mean chicken salad. In the fridge, if you’re hungry.”

One thing about beautiful old houses is that they don’t always have modern amenities. There’s only enough hot water in the tank for a lukewarm shower, but I turn the knob all the way and stand under the spray without moving, letting it use up all the hot water in a matter of seconds. It burns my shoulders, my breasts. My skin turns pink, which is a relief. That’s how I feel on the inside. Tender and hurt. The water turns cold, but I stay like that, opening my mouth and drinking some of the well water, letting it numb me from the outside.

When I get out of the shower, I still look like I’ve been run over by a train, my eyes red and a little shell-shocked. But I don’t look like I’ve just been in a gangbang, which is an improvement. I throw on a Smith College sweatshirt and a loose pair of sweats.

Then I step into the closet to take deep breaths.

Five seems like enough, but it’s not until ten that I think I’m capable of hiding my grief and shock at how skinny Mom looks these days, at how weak she seems.

I half expect Sutton to be gone. Didn’t he disappear when I needed him most? But I can hear his voice as I come down the stairs, low and teasing. And then my mother’s voice, answering back.

It feels surreal to walk into the kitchen and see them sitting at the table. Like maybe I fell asleep in the shower and hit my head. This is all a dream, seeing my mother laugh with Sutton.

“What are you doing?” I ask, which is silly considering what they’re holding.

“Gin,” Sutton says, tipping his cards toward me. “And your mother is kicking my behind.”

“And we’re having ice cream.” My mom tucks the spoon almost delicately into the carton and takes a bite. “If you ask very nice, we’ll let you have some.”

It takes me a moment to remind my feet to move, but I manage to cross the parquet floor to the kitchen table and take an empty seat. A glance at the cards laid out reveals that, yes, my mother is kicking Sutton’s behind. Who uses that word anymore? Behind. It’s an old-world kind of manners for him to watch his language around my mother.

“I hope you didn’t bet anything on the game,” I say, picking up a spare spoon.

Sutton nods toward the counter, where a glass case reveals baked goods. “That chocolate chip cookie.”

I stare at him, expecting him to suddenly fly around or transform into a dragon. That’s how strange it is that he got my mother to eat anything, even ice cream. How strange it is that he got her to want food at all. She’s had her share of wheatgrass and barley in her life, and it hasn’t helped her that much. Now I’m just thrilled to see her eating anything, to see her cheeks pink with excitement.

She puts down three aces with a little laugh. “That cookie is as good as mine.”

I scoot my chair a little closer to Sutton. “You obviously need all the help you can get,” I tell him by way of explanation. He gives me a small smile, looking almost bemused.

He’s warm against my side, solid, comforting. He drops his hand to clasp mine, two of his fingers filling my palm. And I feel closer to him in this moment than I did at the Den, when he was inside me.

When my mother wins, she gets up to do a funny little jig and get the chocolate chip cookie. Which then prompts her to get milk and cookies out for everyone.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, soft so that only he can hear. I don’t only mean in this kitchen. I mean in my life. In my heart. What is he doing to me?

“Not courting you,” he murmurs.

That makes me laugh because he’s telling the truth. This is Sutton being an ordinary person, kind and genuine and so damn charming he has my mother eating cookies. If he courted me again, I don’t think I’d even survive it. He’s dangerous, this man. More dangerous than Christopher’s cruel indifference.