Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123435 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 617(@200wpm)___ 494(@250wpm)___ 411(@300wpm)
“You’re sick,” I tell her. “You have an actual sickness, Mom. And I’m done.”
“Cassie—”
“No. Stop. Don’t tell me I’m being dramatic. Don’t blast me for not taking your side or whatever else you want to bitch about. You just humiliated my boyfriend and his family at a public event that was supposed to honor our family—” I cut myself off, because she’s not worth it. Not worth the energy I’m expending by even saying any of these futile words. This entire time we’ve been out here, she hasn’t once apologized for her actions. In her mind, she did nothing wrong tonight.
I jerk when I feel Grandma’s hand on my arm. “I think it’s time to go.”
“I think so too,” I say, nodding.
My grandmother glances at Mom. “And I think it’s better if you stay in a hotel tonight, Victoria.” With a look of irony, Grandma gestures to the Beacon. “There’s one right there, dear. Perhaps Ms. Cabot will comp you a room.”
“Mother. Seriously.”
“Yes, seriously. I’m done listening to you tonight. You destroy everything you touch. You always have. I tried to instill the right values in you, to teach you the importance of being compassionate, humble. It appears I failed.” Grandma shakes her head sadly. “I’ll have Adelaide’s husband deliver your bags tomorrow morning to wherever you choose to stay. But for tonight, and for the rest of the visit, Cassie and I would like to be alone. Isn’t that right, Cassie?”
“Yes. It is.”
Arms linked tightly together, Grandma and I walk away.
CHAPTER 32
CASSIE
Me: You okay?
Me: Tonight was brutal.
Me: I don’t even know what to say.
I stop texting after the trifecta, because no matter how upset I am, I refuse to become a person who texts in one-liners.
My heart jumps when I see Tate typing back. I’ve been dying to talk to him since I got home, but he had his own shit to deal with. His own parental confrontations. I would’ve killed to be a fly on the wall when Tate spoke to his parents, especially his dad. I need to know Gavin’s side of the sordid story, because I don’t trust a damn word my mother says.
As I wait for Tate’s message to appear, I stare up at the ceiling, wishing he were here with me. It’s eleven o’clock and I doubt I’ll be getting so much as a wink of sleep. My brain keeps running over every word that was uttered tonight. Every horrible, horrible word. I could use the distraction. But Tate is home with his parents, and I assume he’ll be spending the night there.
Tate: Yeah, that was rough. How are you doing?
He was typing for so long, I expected more. But I guess it’s better than nothing.
Me: I don’t even know. Is your mom okay?
Tate: Not really. She hasn’t said much since we got home. Just been quiet. We’re about to take the dogs for a walk.
Me: This late?
Tate: She doesn’t feel like going to bed yet.
There’s a beat. Then another message.
Tate: Dad’s crashing on a friend’s couch.
Fuck. Guilt lodges in my throat like a wad of gum. I know that I, personally, didn’t do this to his family, but I feel responsible, complicit in my mother’s actions.
Gavin cheated too …
Right. I have to acknowledge that too. Not all the blame can be placed on my mother; Tate’s father was equally responsible. And I doubt I’ll ever know the real story about who initiated the affair, because cheaters tend to twist the truth to portray themselves in the best possible light. I’m not sure I envision Gavin as the seductive rogue who wooed my mother into his bed. But I can’t entirely picture her seducing him either. Mom might be charming, but she’s never been a flirt or a, well, bimbo.
I suspect as with most situations the truth is somewhere in the middle.
Either way, tonight left hurricane-scale damage on both our families. Grandma and I sat together in the kitchen for more than an hour after we got home. She was candid with me, admitting how disappointed she’d always been in her youngest daughter. Mom hadn’t experienced any traumatic events in her childhood that made her this way—she was just spoiled. She was the baby, the youngest of four. Grandma didn’t explicitly blame Grandpa Wally—she would never speak an ill word about him—but after our talk tonight, I get the sense he was the one who did most of the spoiling.
But spoiling your kid isn’t a reason for someone to become as callous and entitled as my mother, not reason alone anyway. Some people are just born assholes, I guess.
Grandma said we’d talk about it more tomorrow, but really, what is left to say? I want nothing to do with my mother. For the time being, and possibly longer. The way she was smirking over her champagne tonight as she destroyed another woman’s marriage was despicable. One of the cruelest things I’ve ever witnessed.