Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
My parents’ so-called love was my demise.
Dylan stared at me in shock. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.” I clutched the steering wheel harder. “Your mom used to send me home with sandwiches because she got tired of seeing my poking ribs.”
My cheeks flushed as I remembered the day Zeta saw me playing shirtless with Row in their backyard, my ribs poking out, and decided to take it upon herself to feed me. “The first home-cooked meal I ever had that I didn’t have to make myself was at your place. My last one too, come to think of it.” I grabbed the green stick from my Starbucks coffee, rolling it across my mouth like a toothpick.
“Wow. I had no idea, Rhy.”
“About my shitty childhood? Yeah, I didn’t exactly advertise that shit.”
“Mine wasn’t the best either.” She scratched an old scab on her knee distractedly. “My dad was a raging alcoholic who took his anger out on Mama and Row.”
“Figured as much,” I said quietly. Row and I never talked about it. I didn’t want to embarrass him by bringing it up, and he’d never felt the need to discuss it, but I’d seen the welts. The bruises. “Still. Better a drunk dad and a great mom than two assholes who don’t give a shit about your existence,” I pointed out.
“I mean, if we’re going to make it a competition…” She screwed her mouth sideways adorably. “My dad called me Dylan to spite my mom.”
“Say what now?” I laughed.
“Yup. He knew she loved classic, gender-appropriate names like Ambrose. She named Row without consulting him, because he wanted to call Row ‘Slater.’ Filled in the paperwork before he could have a say. So he chose the most vindictive name he could think of for a girl.” Her eyebrows shot to her hairline. “Dylan is hardly a classic for a girl. My whole existence is a fuck-you to my mom when you think about it.”
“That is an impressive level of pettiness.” I took a right turn toward the leafy Carnegie Hill neighborhood of the daycare. “My mother once forgot to pick me up from the hospital.”
She gasped. “No!”
“Yup.” I popped the p. “I was undergoing surgery for my leg. Got a direct blow to the knee during soccer from Kieran. When she finally showed up—after I had to borrow a nurse’s phone to call her—she forgot my date of birth when she tried to discharge me and had zero paperwork to prove she was my mom. Police got involved. The staff was distraught on my behalf. It was the first time I realized there was something inherently fucked-up about my family. Child Protective Services got into the picture. It was a mess.”
“Okay, fine. You win.”
I bowed my head with flourish. “Thank you.”
“Is that why you don’t want children?” She cocked an eyebrow. “Because you saw firsthand that not everyone is equipped to become a parent.”
“Among other things.” I was opening up to her more than I intended to, but it didn’t feel weird or forced. Of course, there was always a chance I’d mess it all up like I did with my ex-therapist. “I also know I’m probably as selfish as they are, and I don’t want to ruin anyone else’s life. I had a vasectomy when I was eighteen.”
She clutched her heart. “You’re kidding me.”
I shrugged. “Condoms break. My resolve doesn’t. I don’t want children.”
“That you don’t want them I understand, but why are you so repulsed by them?” she insisted. “Grav is an objectively cute kid. Say otherwise, and I’ll put you back at the hospital. And this time, your mom won’t help.”
Offering her a lenient smirk, I explained, “There’s no reason to long for things you’ll never have. It’s better if I stay away from kids altogether.” I was pretty at peace with that. Kids seemed like a lot of work without much return on investment.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, but in the spirit of full transparency, I tend to lie,” I admitted.
“You literally told me lies are your hard limit.” Dylan looked floored.
“Hey, I never claimed not to be a hypocrite,” I said unapologetically. “Lying is a knee-jerk reaction from working in customer service with highly sensitive clients.”
I was too used to telling not-pretty women they were pretty, untalented heiresses they were talented, and unlovable brats that love was just around the corner.
“Did you really never have a thing for me?” She cleared her throat. “Because I had a thing for you. Like, hard.”
“I didn’t,” I told her.
But I do now, I thought. And while manageable, it is extremely inconvenient.
Even that wasn’t the whole truth. She’d always been my biggest temptation. Sometimes I wondered if God created her just to make the only healthy relationship in my life—my friendship with Row—complicated, just to fucking spite me.
I found a parking spot right in front of the daycare and slid into it. The Broadway building boasted white columns, large arched windows, and two sets of bulletproof glass doors.