Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87142 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“Of course, I do.” I wrapped my arms around my middle. “Why did you lie to me?”
He stilled, turning to look at me with the flattest eyes I’d ever seen. “I never lied to you. Not once.”
“You told me your father was dead.”
“No, I told your parents my father died. You read it in a magazine or in the troves of whatever file you keep on me with my damned SAT scores. For all intents and purposes, he’s dead to me. I never lied to you.” He dropped his hands, then walked past me, headed for the stairs.
“Where are you going?” I followed him.
“We’re leaving,” he announced, flinging the bedroom door open.
“Why is your father in jail?” I asked from the doorway.
Nixon paused, then shook his head as he yanked a bag from the top of the closet and threw it onto the bed. “This discussion is over. Get packed.”
I felt his words like a direct blow to my heart. “You can’t just ignore what happened down there.”
He scoffed. “No, you can’t just ignore it.” The sound of drawers opening and shutting filled the space as he threw his clothes into the bag. “Please, Zoe. Let this go.”
Like hell.
“Why is your father in jail?” I repeated. “Is it for hurting you? Is that what those scars are really from?” I gripped the wood of the doorframe to keep from crossing the distance between us and tracing those scars.
“Those are bar fights. Just like I told you. He was never stupid enough to leave marks on me,” Nixon answered with another shake of his head.
Bile rose in my throat. “But he did beat you.”
“Every summer, when I was there for visitation,” he replied casually, grabbing the shoes from the bottom of the closet.
“Why did you go back?” I flinched at the sound of my own words. “I don’t mean that it was your fault. It wasn’t your fault. Did your mom know?”
“I told her after the first summer.” He glanced at me, but there was still nothing recognizable about him in those eyes. “It didn’t really start until I was seven or so. And my mother liked her summers free. When she questioned him, my father told her I needed discipline. Said I was out of control. My father…he’s very convincing.”
“Nixon,” I whispered, imagining him as a boy, small and vulnerable.
“Don’t do that,” he snapped. “Don’t pity me. I’m the last person who deserves it.”
“It’s not pity.” It was compassion.
“Like hell it isn’t.” He ripped his phone charger from the wall, stuffing it into his bag. “And I’m the one who chose to go back as I got older. I’m the one who stopped telling my mother when it escalated. This is just as much on me. If I’d pressed the issue, she would have done something. She’s…flighty and naïve, not inhuman.”
“It’s never on you!” There were missing pieces here, that’s why I couldn’t put it all together, but I didn’t know what to ask. Didn’t know what he’d even answer. But I had to try. I couldn’t let him put on the I’m fine mask only to wake up screaming beside me tonight. A name—Cheryl had said a name. “Who is Kaylee?”
The blood drained from Nixon’s face, and he froze like a statue, his hands on the edges of the duffel. It was the same face he’d worn when Ashley had come over. But he liked kids. Loved Levi. He buckled a car seat like a pro…like he’d done it before. Cheryl’s hair—
“You don’t have a kid, you have a sister.” My hand fell from the doorframe. “Don’t you?”
“Had.” The admission was low, the sound grating over my heart like a thousand tiny cuts.
“Had?”
He pulled another piece of luggage from the closet, then started on the clothes hanging there. His motions were quick and jerky but efficient, as though his body was on autopilot. As though we weren’t in the middle of a storm he’d held at bay for far too long.
“Nixon!” I moved inside the room—our room. How long before he shut the door in my face too?
“What?” he shouted, turning to face me, his hands out. “What else could you possibly want to know, Zoe?”
“Everything,” I answered softly. Suddenly, the room didn’t feel like ours anymore. Maybe it hadn’t ever really been ours. Just like his heart, I’d only borrowed the space that was ultimately his. Now I was trespassing. “I want to know everything.”
“Everything,” he mocked with a sneer.
“Yes.” This was the Nixon I’d seen backstage and across the conference table for the past four years—the egotistical, callous, pompous asshole. He had the mask in place so seamlessly I couldn’t help but wonder if I was the only one who saw it for what it was—a scab over a sluggishly bleeding, festering wound. Somewhere between the two—that’s where my Nixon lived, and he’d shut me out.