Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 32533 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 163(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32533 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 163(@200wpm)___ 130(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
“What did you mean back there?” he says. “That you grew up with ‘less than nothing?’”
I strain to remember everything I said to Brittany in the heat of the moment.
“I guess I meant that we didn’t have any money when I was little. We moved around a lot, usually to different one-bedroom apartments. For a while, I only had enough clothes and toys to fill a suitcase. But things got better when I was around six or seven. I think that’s when Dad started working for…those people.”
Christian sighs heavily. My pulse races as I try to read his expression. Is he disgusted by the fact that I grew up poor? Or does he think I’m fishing for sympathy?
“But I actually came down this morning to talk to you,” I say, quickly. “Last night was—”
“A mistake.” Christian’s voice is cold and hard.
My heart skips a beat, and I pray I’ve misheard him.
“W-what? Why?”
“Last night was a mistake. It never should’ve happened.”
I swallow hard, trying to dislodge the lump from my throat.
“You don’t mean that, Christian.”
“I do,” he says, final and serious. “I think it’s best if we both forget about what happened.”
I blink up at him, incredulous. How can he say that after what we did last night? After what he let me call him…
My voice trembles as I tell him, “If that’s what you think is best…”
He doesn’t answer me. Dejected, I wrap my arms around myself and rush past him, back toward my room.
My tears flow freely. What did I expect? Christian isn’t my real family. He’s just a man my father used to know. But my father is gone forever.
And so is my daddy.
CHAPTER 6
EDEN
I spend the days leading up to Thanksgiving trying to avoid the Montgomerys. Thankfully, Brittany seems content to ignore me, and I try not to encounter Christian more than I absolutely have to.
He’s barely spoken to me since the other day, except to make small talk in front of my mother. My cheeks hurt from forcing my face to smile. I pretend like I’m not hurting, that I don’t care about his rejection, that I don’t lie awake at night thinking about his hands on my hips and his mouth between my thighs.
But I do care, and I am hurt. I’m filled with such immense pain and anger that I have to make an active effort not to shout in his face. I don’t understand how he can call me his baby girl one minute and then want nothing to do with me the next.
Then again, I probably should have seen it coming.
I know Christian turned his back on my dad all those years ago. Why did I think he’d be any different with me? What makes me so damn special?
Ask Christian, I remind myself. He’s the one who made me feel special. But it was just a game to him, or a colossal mistake, or whatever he’s telling himself. The point is, I let him fool me into thinking he’d be there for me when I needed him, like a real daddy would.
But Christian’s not my daddy. He’s not even my real uncle. He’s just the rich man my father guilted into helping us.
I want to tell him not to marry my mother for selfish reasons. Because being around him, knowing he doesn’t want me, is agony. Then I feel ashamed when I see Mom limping to the bathroom or stretching out the stiffness in her hands. It’s not fair to her for me to demand they break off their engagement. She needs access to the best medical care money can buy, and Christian can give her that.
So, I swallow it down, everything I want to scream, beg, and cry about. Down into my stomach where it sits in a locked box with no chance of ever coming up to the surface. I plaster on a smile and try to make the best of this trip with my mom. We hang out by the pool, order elaborate virgin drinks, and walk as far as we can on the beach before Mom gets winded.
As far as vacations go, it’s nice. I chant the word like a prayer in my mind. The beach is nice. This pool is nice. The affogato I order for dessert every night is very nice, though it would be even better served to me on someone else’s spoon.
I feign an air of aloofness as I take my seat at the table for the resort’s all-you-can-eat Thanksgiving dinner. Despite the fact we’ve been eating our meals separately these past few days, both Christian and my mom insisted we all eat together tonight.
Christian clears his throat. “Now that we’re all together, I’d like to thank Petra and Eden once again for joining us on this trip.”
“Thank you for having us,” my mom says, her gaze distant. She turns to me expectantly. “Right, sweetheart?”