Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84075 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84075 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Kat makes me think there’s something more to life than getting power and controlling my family, like maybe there could be real happiness.
I look back up at Riley and Albert, and I see them differently—two young guys genuinely celebrating a good thing. Maybe Riley had the kid as some sort of play at taking control of the family, or maybe Riley got his wife pregnant because he truly wants a child.
I don’t fucking know, because I barely fucking know him.
My own cousin, more or less a stranger and an enemy.
That’s what the Arc family does to its people.
Grandpop pits us against each other and always has from the moment I was born.
Things with Kat are different. They’re simple. When I’m with her, it’s like—I can be myself. I can let down my guard and let her get to know me without worrying if there are ulterior motives behind everything she’s saying.
When did I get so soft? But I’m not sure this is softness.
It’s a kind of strength to find something I really want and take it even if that means giving up on my own life.
But am I ready to do that? Am I ready to choose Kat when I don’t even know if what we have is real? She’s going to marry me because I swore I’d take care of her and her mother.
Can I do that if Grandpop excommunicates me from the family?
It’s absurd to throw away what I’ve built here on a whim. Kat might be warming up to me but we’ll never have something real—it’ll always be founded on lies.
And in the end, I can’t take that risk.
Chapter 18
Kat
Another picture and another no-reply although this time I told him not to say anything. It’s almost a relief not to hear anything this time, and I like the idea of him looking at me somewhere out there in the world and I don’t even know he’s doing it.
Ford’s gone all day and I spend the afternoon enjoying some more shopping. The place is coming together but there’s still a lot of work to do. I have the big ideas blocked in, but I need a bunch of little details to pull it all together. I’m picturing a modern mid-century vibe, lots of neo-futuristic stuff, but softer and warmer, more candles and plants and cozy cushions and blankets and pillows. A little feminine, a little masculine.
Even though he told me not to think about what he might like, I can’t help myself. If we’re going to live together, I want him to be happy in this place too and so every decision I make has him in the back of my mind judging and questioning and wondering if I couldn’t do a little bit better.
Which isn’t fair since he’s done nothing but be supportive, or at least he made it clear that he doesn’t have strong preferences.
The day passes and I come home with a decent haul. He’s still not back so I order takeout, pick a movie at random from Netflix, and spend the evening comparing color swatches with the paintings I’ve chosen to hang on the walls. I’m starting to get a little antsy and lonely.
But the elevator finally dings only when I’m just about ready for bed.
Ford comes in and says nothing to me. I’m not even sure he notices that I exist. He heads right upstairs, goes into our bedroom, and gets into the shower. I hesitate and feel a sudden surge of anger—
I’m trying so hard.
This apartment, the pictures, the flirting, everything, I’m trying so hard to make this work. I could spy on him and steal from him and do all the things my grandfather would love me to do, but instead I’m here with Ford in good faith. The only reason I still have a job at Shady Farms and my mom’s rehab checks are still clearing is because Grandfather thinks I might change my mind about the spying thing, even though I never will. Sooner or later, my life’s going to crumble completely, and I’m trying to make the best of it while Ford stomps around looking goddamn grumpy all the time.
It pisses me off. I hate being vulnerable like this—showing him pieces of me I’ve never shown anyone before—and I don’t know how much longer I can handle him disappearing for hours at a time only to show back up and ignore me.
I know we’re not really engaged—we’re not really together—this is all a business deal.
But it’d be nice to get a hello after I sent him a picture of me in nothing but a towel earlier today.
I head upstairs and get ready for bed in the extra bathroom. When I’m done, I sneak into our bedroom and slip under the covers. Ford comes out of the shower still damp, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs and stands in front of his dresser. I stare at his cut body still slightly wet, at the tattoos in his skin, at the strange scars on his back—long, skinny lines, almost surgical in their precision—and feel my hips wriggling slightly at the idea of that man, that monster, that beast in this bed with me. The man that spread my legs and licked me, kissed me, made me clean myself from his fingertips. Ford stands there for a long time staring in at his undershirts and his lightweight sleep pants without saying anything, his eyes blank and unfocused, the water drying on his skin, and slowly my attraction to him turns to confusion.