Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Ripley’s jaw tenses and I know he’s pissed. He’s ready to fight. But it’s the way the blues in his eyes change to a dark, almost gray color that tells me that her words are hurting him, too.
He’s no more his father than I am my mother.
“That’s not fair, Mom,” I say, tears filling my eyes. “Don’t talk to him like that.”
“I can’t believe you’d do this to me, especially when you know what a rotten week this has been for me! I’ve lost my friends. Now I’ve lost you.”
“Ms. Hayes—”
“No.” She glares at him, shaking the wine bottle in his direction.
I’ve never seen her like this. I’ve never seen her this unhinged. Never this close to losing it.
I don’t know what to do. Do I calm my mother down and try to be rational? Do I take Ripley’s side and tell Mom to stop it? I don’t know.
“Just leave,” Mom shouts, her voice cracking. “Get in your car and go. You’re just another boy in her life that will be forgotten in a week. Just because your last name is Brewer doesn’t mean you’re special! Someone like you would never be good enough for my daughter!”
Ripley pales. I know she just hit a direct wound, and he has to be reeling from it right now. My heart shatters for him, but I need to show him I’m on his side.
That I believe in him.
That she’s fucking wrong.
“You don’t have the right to say terrible things to him,” I say, yelling back. “You can’t talk to him this way. You don’t even know him.”
“And I apparently don’t know my own daughter, either. You’re betraying me just like your father. Just like his father! Just like my friends.”
“Get over yourself! I’m not betraying you!”
“The hell you aren’t.”
“And don’t you dare compare him to his father,” I say, my voice shaking with fury.
My neighbor to the right sticks his head out of the door before ducking back inside.
Great. We’re the neighborhood Maury Povich show now.
Tears flow down my cheeks. Ripley reaches for me, but my mother jumps between us.
“If you see my daughter again, you’ll be taking her away from her mother,” Mom says, crying, too. “Because I won’t stick around to watch you hurt her. I won’t watch you take her away from me.”
Ripley looks to me. He doesn’t look like the confident, slightly arrogant, self-assured man I know. He’s sad, frustrated, and slightly broken … just like me.
“Can I call you later?” I ask him softly.
“If you call him, I’ll never speak to you again,” Mom says, throwing down the gauntlet. “I won’t stand for it. I won’t have you running around with him when I know exactly what he’ll do to you.”
“Mom, that’s not fair.”
She shrugs as if she doesn’t care if it’s fair or not. And that’s probably true. She doesn’t.
Ripley nods at my mother, as if he can’t help but show some sort of respect—because he’s such a good man—then he turns to me.
The pain in his eyes stabs me in the heart. Tears stream down my face, clouding my vision. But, I know I see a shine of tears fog his gorgeous blue eyes, too.
He bows his head, as if he can’t look at me, and gets into his car and drives off into the afternoon sun.
“I raised you better than this, Georgia Faith.”
I wipe my face, sniffling back snot. I don’t even care. “You raised me not to trust anyone. You taught me that the odds of being happy weren’t great. Because you had bad experiences with men, you taught me I should be wary of them, too.”
Her hand shakes around the wine bottle.
“I know you love me and were just trying to help protect me, Mom. But you just pushed away a great fucking guy because you are scared. How fair is that?”
“You don’t want him. You just think you do. You’ll be fine after a couple of weeks.”
I laugh angrily, taking a moment to pull myself together before I speak. “I know Ripley and I will be fine. It’s me and you that I’m not sure about.”
“What does that mean?”
I throw up my hands, exasperated. “I am thirty years old. Thirty!” I yell it entirely too loud, but I don’t care. “I don’t want to be mean to you, but you’ve left me no choice.”
Mom takes a step back.
“I am an adult—a grown-ass woman who’s capable of making my own choices. As a matter of fucking fact, I have a great life because of my choices. I have a job—which, you don’t know about because you haven’t asked. It never occurs to you to think about anyone other than yourself.”
“That’s not true,” she says, her bottom lip quivering.
But I don’t care. I don’t care that she’s sad. I don’t care that she’s upset. I don’t give a flying fuck that I’m about to hurt her feelings because she doesn’t care about mine.