Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 468(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
“Do you even know how old I am?”
“Don’t be rude,” she snapped. “I’m still your mother.”
“When did you decide that?”
“Hey. I’m trynna do you a favor. I get wanting the money, but make sure he signs a prenup. You need to protect yourself for when he leaves you.”
My blood boiled. “I don’t need a prenup.”
“Yes, you do,” she slurred. “You think everything will be wine and roses, but it won’t. The good times don’t last. He’ll make promises he won’t keep, just like your father did.”
“You leave Dad out of this,” I said furiously. “He’s never broken a promise to me my entire life. And I bet he never broke one to you either!”
“He promised to love me. Instead he drove me away. He took my children from me,” she accused.
“Leaving was your choice,” I shot back. “You betrayed Dad. You betrayed Millie and Winnie and me.”
She laughed again. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know anything.”
“I know enough,” I said. I ended the call, blocked her number, and tossed my phone on the passenger seat.
I will not cry. I will not fall apart. I will not give her that power over me.
But it wasn’t just her call that had me bawling into my hands—it was everything. The lying to my family, the dread of losing Hutton, the fear that my feelings were hopeless, the envy of anyone who’d found love, the doubt that my heart would remain in one piece . . .
What had I done?
Hutton was still working at the kitchen table when I walked in. “Hi,” he said, giving me a tired smile.
My gut instinct was to run for him, bury my face in his chest, and let him hold me while I sobbed. But I refrained—I couldn’t be dependent on him to comfort me. He wouldn’t always be here to put me back together when I felt myself coming apart.
“Be right back.” I dropped my keys and purse on the floor and made a beeline for the bedroom. Slipping into the bathroom, I shut the door behind me and braced myself on the vanity. Stared at my reflection in the mirror. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
I opened the top drawer and messed around, looking for scissors. Then the second drawer. The third.
Found them.
I pulled them out of the drawer and was about to start cutting when the ring on my finger caught my eye. I hesitated.
Then I heard a knock on the door behind me.
“Felicity?”
Ashamed, I shoved the scissors back in the drawer and slammed it shut.
The door opened. “Felicity.”
I spun around, hands behind my back, leaning on the vanity. “What?”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” I bit my lip.
He glanced at the sink behind me. “Were you going to cut your hair?”
I shook my head. Stopped. Nodded.
And burst into tears.
Wordlessly, he came forward and pulled me into his arms, holding me, rubbing my back, letting me cry my eyes out into his chest. After a few minutes, he reached over and grabbed a tissue. “Want to tell me what’s up?”
“No.” I took the tissue from him and blew my nose.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re busy and need to concentrate on work, not my bullshit. The entire point of this arrangement was for you to have time and space to work, and I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You are not a burden. Do I need to remind you how we promised to be there for each other when one of us needed a friend? I know you didn’t use the code, but I’m sensing the bat signal here.” He peeked behind me. “Those scissors are a cry for help. Now talk.”
I grabbed another tissue. “My mother called.”
“Oh.”
Mopping up my face, I told him about the messages she left, how she managed to push all my buttons, how mad I was at myself that I let her get to me. “After all this time,” I said angrily, yanking another tissue from the box. “Why should she still have that power?”
“Because she’s your mother and what she did left a scar,” he said.
“But I don’t need her. I don’t even like her.” I struggled to keep the sobs from erupting. “Why should it matter what she says?”
“Maybe it doesn’t matter whether you need her or like her. Maybe just the fact that deep down, you know she was your mother and was supposed to love and protect you, and instead she hurt you, is enough to fuck with your head.”
“Yeah.” I took some shuddery breaths. “I guess.”
“Maybe you should talk to my sister,” he said. “Or she could give you the name of someone else. While I am an expert at head fuckery, I’m not a therapist.”
That actually made me crack a smile. “Look at you promoting therapy.”
He shrugged. “Just because it didn’t solve my issues doesn’t mean it can’t help you with yours. My shit is my own fault. Your shit was done to you—I bet a good therapist could help you work through it.”