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)
I gasp. What in the actual fuck? “I had no idea.”
“I know. We didn’t tell you. And keeping a distance became a habit for me, I suppose. But I’ve been watching you grow up all these years, and I think you are a wonderful young woman. So creative, with your stories, and your humor. I’m very proud of you.”
“Then why don’t you want me around my sisters?” The wounded question slips out before I can stop it.
She looks alarmed. “Why do you say that?”
“You’ve always been so protective of them when I’m around. Like you don’t trust me to be around them. Last month, after Monique fell, you looked so furious and—”
“I was very furious,” Nia interrupts. “With Monique!” She’s flustered now. “That girl knows better than to climb on furniture! I told you before we left that night how much it was upsetting me.”
She did tell me. But, I suddenly realize, when you think someone doesn’t like you, everything they say becomes warped. Every look becomes distorted. Her eyes might transmit aggravation with Monique’s disobedience, but my eyes see condemnation. Her tone might convey concern, but I hear accusation. I made it all about myself, and I’m ashamed when I realize that’s something my mother would do.
“I thought you didn’t want me around. Dad too.”
“Your father? Never. Your father loves you, Cassandra. You’re all he ever talks about.”
A lump forms in my throat. “Really?”
“There isn’t a day that goes by in this house where your name isn’t spoken,” Nia says. “He loves you very much.”
“He never tells me that.”
“Do you ever tell him how you feel?”
“No, but is it just my responsibility?”
“No,” she agrees. “And this is why we will go inside now, so you can speak to him.”
“You said he was asleep.”
“When I got up, yes. But he’s awake now.” She nods toward the kitchen window. “I signaled for him to give us a minute when he came outside.”
“He came outside?”
“Yes. When you were … being sad.”
Being sad. Understatement of the year.
“I suspect he’s preparing the tea you like. And I would like you to say to him all the things you just said to me. Why don’t we go inside and do that?”
I hesitate.
She brushes driveway gravel off her knees and gets to her feet. “Cassandra?” She extends her hand.
I take it and let her help me up. But the doubts are returning, the old insecurities whipping up and making me bite my lip. “If you like me, why do you always call me Cassandra?”
“That’s your name, oui?”
“Oui—I mean, yes. But … everyone else calls me Cassie or Cass and you never do. I thought it meant something. Like maybe you were being intentionally formal because you didn’t like me.”
Her lips curve with humor. “Not at all. I just think it’s a beautiful name. Cas-san-dra. I enjoy the way it rolls off my tongue.”
I swallow my laughter. Of course she does.
The human brain is so ridiculous sometimes. It creates these elaborate intentions for people, attributes motives, when at the end of the day, she just likes how my name rolls off her tongue.
CHAPTER 33
TATE
I walk into the kitchen the next morning to find my father at the table, drinking his coffee and reading the Saturday edition of the Avalon Bee while Mom scrambles eggs at the stove. I do an honest-to-God double take. I have to blink several times to convince myself I’m not imagining this charade of domestic bliss.
Dad crashed at his friend Kurt’s house last night and now he’s in our kitchen. He must have woken up and come straight home, and instead of slamming the door in his face, Mom allowed him in and is goddamn serving him breakfast.
I stand in the doorway, staring. They don’t notice me, too caught up in their mundane activities. Mom’s sticking two slices of bread in the toaster. Dad’s reading the paper, no care in the world after blowing our family apart.
“What the hell is he doing here?”
They both look over in shock.
When my eyes lock with Dad’s, his fill with shame. Good. He fucking better be ashamed. Since the second Cassie’s mother dropped that bomb, the events of last night have been running on a loop in my head. When Mom and I got home, she refused to even discuss what happened. I’ve never been so frustrated in my life, but hey, I thought, it’s not just my life that got completely upended. This is her marriage. So I kept my mouth shut despite all the questions burning at my tongue. I didn’t push her. We walked the dogs and then she bid me good night and went up to bed.
Now she’s cooking breakfast for my cheating father as if nothing happened?
“Tate,” Dad starts. Cautious. “Sit down. We should probably talk about last night.”
“First of all, probably?” I’m equal doses dumbfounded and enraged. “And second, why are you here? Why are you sitting there drinking coffee? You should be upstairs packing a fucking bag.”