Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“I have no idea,” he says, indignation creeping in to banish the shock on his features. “I barely knew your mother, and I certainly didn’t get her pregnant, Sully. I told you the truth. We kissed a few times, that’s it. It was nothing, especially compared to this.” He curls his hand around my thigh, his fingers digging into my skin. “Like I said, we shouldn’t be fighting each other, we should be fighting for each other.”
I swallow past the knot in my throat. “How can I believe you?” I sit up, looking for my camisole, then decide to forget it and go straight to pulling on my sweater before reaching for my panties and sweatpants.
He huffs as he stands, hitching up his own pants. “How can you not? I’ve never lied to you. Your family are the ones who lie. Your mother and your cousin, Chris, and God knows who else.”
“Chris and I aren’t close, and I know he’s not the best person,” I say as I stand beside him, feeling the need to make that clear. “But Steven, the person who told me all this, is a good guy. And the baby isn’t the only secret he overheard when he was eavesdropping as a kid.”
Weaver crosses his arms, his Ice Prince glare in full effect as he says, “Please, tell me what’s next. I can’t wait to defend myself from more insane gossip spread by a bored old woman and a child.”
“He said…” I pause, not wanting to say the next part aloud. If it’s true, he’s not the person I thought he was. “He said there was a rumor going around town that not long after you beat up my dad, you almost killed a man in New York. With your bare hands. For no reason.”
“There was a reason,” he says, making my stomach twist with dread. “He put his hand up my friend’s skirt.”
I blink, that’s bad, but not self-defense. Or a reason to do what I heard he did. “Okay, but…they said he ended up in the hospital afterward, Weaver. That you beat him so badly that he almost died and your dad had to pay off a bunch of people to keep you from going to prison. They said the guy almost lost an eye and had to drop out of college afterward because he couldn’t play sports anymore.”
As soon as the words are out, I know it’s true.
It’s written right there, in the shame on Weaver’s face.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, my hand coming to grip my throat as I shake my head back and forth. “Oh my God, Weaver.”
“I told you there was an incident when I went back to the city.”
“Not an incident where you almost killed someone,” I say, shoving my feet back into my boots. “And not where your father had to bribe people to keep you out of prison. What about all your big talk about consequences? Are those just for other people? But when you destroy someone’s life, it’s okay?”
“I told you. He assaulted my friend. It’s no excuse for what I did, but—”
“You’re right, it’s not.” I move toward my sling, but Weaver is already there, snatching it off the floor.
“Please,” he says, his eyes pleading with mine. “Let me explain, Sully.”
“Give me my sling.”
“Please, I—”
“There’s nothing to explain. There’s nothing you can say to make this better. Nothing.”
His throat works. “Then, this is it? It’s over?”
“My sling,” I say, fighting to keep from falling apart. “Please.”
I hold out my hand and he presses the fabric slowly, gently into my palm, practically wrenching my heart from my chest as he says, “All right, but please…get out of this town. For your own sake. And if you ever need anything—money, a reference, an introduction to my gallery owner friend in the city—just ask. I’ll do whatever I can to help. No strings attached.”
Eyes filling with tears, I rasp, “Please, just go.”
“I’m going,” he says, tears in his eyes, too. “I love you, Gertrude Sullivan. And I always will.”
And then he’s gone and I’m dropping back to the floor to sob my heart out.
I cry and cry, open-mouthed, nearly silent sobs that sap what little strength I have left in my body after a restless, painful night of sleep. Then I pull myself together as best I can and clean up the mess Weaver and I made on my friend’s floor. But once I’m done, I can’t seem to move.
I’m still sitting on the hardwood, a pile of used paper towels and a spray cleaner bottle beside me when Elaina appears half an hour later.
I peer up at her, my puffy, aching eyes narrowing in my face. “What are you doing here? Who’s watching the café?”
“No one,” she says. “After Weaver left with tears in his eyes, I kicked everyone out and closed up for the day.”