Total pages in book: 164
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 764(@200wpm)___ 611(@250wpm)___ 510(@300wpm)
Like that night at the hotel. Maybe it was dumb, running away with Bianca. I was pissy, finding out Dad went behind my back and offered to arrange a marriage with that dickhead Dominic Moroni. He wasn’t serious about it. He told me so afterward, and I believed him, but that didn’t mean I was happy about being used as a pawn, even if it was all pretend. I was hurt and upset and used it as an excuse to run away. I’m not proud of myself. But I wasn’t thinking very clearly then, either. I was worse than I am now, which is saying something, considering I can’t stand having men touch me.
But back then? Then, I figured I would try and see if I could get over it somehow. Like maybe I could get it out of my system. It’s easy to look back now and wonder what the hell I was thinking. You don’t just magically get over something like being abused and raped because you want to, no matter how much you will yourself to move on. And I did. Did I ever.
So it made sense to take an interested guy back to the room after we had a little too much to drink down in the bar. I was even eager to get up there. I wanted to prove to myself that Kristoff hadn’t ruined me. That I was still in control of my life, my body.
That illusion flew straight out the window the second the poor guy, whose name I don’t remember, joined me in the bedroom and placed his hand on me. Something snapped in my head. I started to scream and cry and beat him back with my fists until he ran off. It’s not like I wanted to. I honestly couldn’t control myself.
That was the night I finally confessed to Dad. I had to. And I knew at the time I was probably signing Kristoff’s death certificate, only it didn’t matter when I was falling apart and there was no hiding it anymore. I couldn’t bear pretending that I was okay when I wasn’t. A secret like that eats at you. It breaks you down bit by bit until you don’t recognize yourself anymore, especially seeing as you’ve put all your energy into keeping it buried inside.
Now, Jeff wants to know what happened to his son. I can’t tell him because even I don’t know, but I do know he got what he deserved.
It irks me that Romero knows all of it. Like I’m exposed. It’s as if he knows what a weak, pitiful person I am for letting somebody hurt me. For thinking if I only worked harder, things would be okay. Whenever he looks at me, I wonder if he’s asking himself how I could’ve been that stupid. I guess it’s part of being my father’s daughter. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be strong, the kind of daughter he would want since he never had the son I’m sure he would’ve preferred. Then again, he got that son, didn’t he? The day Romero came along.
My teeth are on edge by the time the water starts boiling. Romero’s probably talking to Dad right now out on the front porch, sharing their little secrets I was never allowed to know about. I know what Dad would say, too, if I complained. He didn’t want me to be part of his world. Surprise, surprise, I got dragged into his bullshit anyway. He could only shelter me for so long.
Cooking dinner gives me something to do, at least. Maybe I should hone my technique or whatever while we’re here. It’s better than sitting around doing nothing. I could come out of this with a new skill. I could learn to bake, even. However, I don’t know where that would get me. Just like I don’t see where a degree in Public Relations and Marketing will get me when my skin goes clammy the moment I have to talk to strangers. It’s so pathetic and the opposite of who I used to be. I want to be her again. Bubbly, carefree. I just don’t know how.
At first, I dismiss the soft laughter coming from Romero–but it’s not him. It’s coming from the back of the house, not the front. Besides, who the hell am I kidding? Romero doesn’t laugh. I’ve literally never heard him laugh in the ten years he’s practically lived at my father’s side.
The hair on the back of my neck rises and I freeze, a box of pasta hovering over the boiling water until the steam from the pot burns the tips of my fingers, startling me. I place the box on the counter with a trembling hand before the creak of old, weathered wood tells me there’s somebody at the back door—somebody who’s laughing.