Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 191421 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 957(@200wpm)___ 766(@250wpm)___ 638(@300wpm)
I knew he hated me. I hated him too.
But I never expected him to do what he did. It actually surprised me for a second that he’d do that. But then like always, I accepted it.
I accepted it because I thought he was telling the truth.
I was abusing her.
Not in the rape-y way but in the way where I’ve been selfishly using her.
Where I’ve been selfishly, purposefully, keeping her with me to sate my own needs.
So I believed everything he said.
I believed it.
“She didn’t,” I say then.
“She didn’t what?”
…didn’t believe the rumors. The lies.
She actually never did. Not even back when we’d first met. It was my asshole behavior that pushed her away, that finally convinced her that she should hate me. Not the gossip about me.
She didn’t believe it yesterday either. When again, I was trying to do the same. Trying to show her who I am underneath.
In fact, she stood up for me.
She stood in front of everyone, her parents, the people at the manor, the cops, Lucas, and said no. She kept saying that she loved me. That she wanted me, wanted it. That Lucas was lying. Everyone was lying.
Except me.
Swallowing again, I answer, “She didn’t disappoint me. Hasn’t disappointed me. Ever. In fact, she told me that I wasn’t a disappointment at all. Not to her.”
“Yeah,” my brother agrees. “Which can only mean one thing.”
“What?”
“That she loves you back.”
My chest hurts again.
And again, it’s not from the beating I took. It’s from the thing that I feel for her.
Love.
She loves me.
I know she’s said it a lot of times now. But I’m only now letting it sink in.
She loves me.
She fucking loves me. She’s loved me since that first night.
She’s loved me even when she hated me.
Even when I made her hate me.
“So my question again: What is the problem? What the fuck are you doing?”
Exactly.
What the fuck am I doing?
She loves me. Apparently I love her too.
I believe that I’m a disappointment. She doesn’t. Even my brother doesn’t.
She says I believe the wrong thing. I believe the wrong people.
And if I can believe the wrong people, if I can believe the world and my piece of shit father, then why can’t I believe her? The only person who’s never disappointed me. The only person to ever love me despite everything.
Why can’t I believe what she believes about me?
Holy shit.
Holy fucking shit.
I look at my brother, the pain increasing in my chest. “Nothing.”
“What?”
“There’s no problem. I mean, I’m the problem but there’s really no problem.”
And if I believe her, if I keep believing her, then maybe one day…
One day I can believe it myself.
That I’m really more than what I was told I was.
I’m really more than a second son.
“Thank fucking God,” Homer mutters.
“You cursed. Again.”
“Seemed like the occasion for it.”
My lips twitch.
“It’s not going to be easy, just so you know,” he says then. “Going after her, I mean.”
“I know.”
Not only did I not protect her last night, I also made sure that I’m on her parents’ permanent shit list. The kind of shit list that I may never get off of.
But I’m going to try.
And I’ll keep trying until I do.
Because like her, I’m not going to give up.
Not on her. Not on myself.
Not on this love.
“Because getting caught buck naked in their daughter’s bedroom is not the way you want to start out with her parents,” Homer adds for good measure.
I scrub a hand down my sore and bruised face. “I’m going to need a tie.”
“You’re going to need a lot more than a tie, but we’ll start with that.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re enjoying this?”
“Because I am.” Then, “Besides, being good gets boring.”
And then I break down and say it. “I know.”
“You know what?”
“Why you wanted me to work with you for a year.”
He stiffens. “So you can earn the money.”
“No,” I tell him. “So you can earn my trust and get to know me.”
His fingers tighten over the wheel.
“And I don’t blame you.”
“No?”
I shake my head, chuckling humorlessly. “Because I never would’ve given you a chance otherwise.” Then, “I don’t trust easy.”
His posture remains rigid. “I know.”
“And it’s not your fault.”
“What isn’t?”
“That you weren’t there. I never told you. You didn’t know. And when you did,” I pause to take a breath, “you came for me.”
He takes his time responding.
Probably absorbing my words.
The truth.
Because I don’t blame him. Not anymore.
It’s hard work, blaming someone who’s trying to do the right thing.
Who’s trying to be more than what you always knew them to be.
He makes another noncommittal sound, which means he didn’t believe it. The truth. Which is fine I guess. I’ll just keep telling him then.
Until he does.
Then, “If your soccer club offer still stands, I’d love to join you.”
That makes him relax.
It also makes him smile a little bit. “Yeah?”