Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 368(@200wpm)___ 295(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
I blink in surprise. “Mom’s the very opposite of me. She’s always done everything she’s supposed to.”
“I don’t mean you get your rebellious streak from her; I mean you inherited her stubborn streak. As well as, perhaps, your tendency to speak and act first, think later. Especially when things don’t go your way.”
“I’ll have you know I’ve gotten much better at that over the years,” I say.
“I’m sure you have, but your mother still gives in to the urge to say things she doesn’t mean when she’s frustrated.”
I don’t pretend to misunderstand. “You mean like when she told me to leave and never come back.”
“She didn’t tell you to leave,” he says, with impressive gentleness. “That was your decision.”
“True,” I admit. “But she hardly gave me a hug, well-wishes, and told me she couldn’t wait to hear all about my California adventure at Thanksgiving.” I risk another glance his way. “Neither did you.”
In that moment he looks older than his years, and he bows his head. “No. No, I didn’t, and I have some regrets about that.”
It’s not quite an apology, but I’m still shocked by how much it means to me to hear it. To know that they haven’t been leaving all the blame on my shoulders all these years, that the shoddy state of our relationship isn’t entirely my fault.
Plenty my fault, definitely. But not entirely.
I reach over and hold his hand, giving it a squeeze. He squeezes back; there’s a lifetime of communication in the silent gesture.
“Is now a good time to ask if you’re ever going to take Coco public?” he asks, a playful note of hope in his voice.
“Wait, what?” I laugh in surprise. “You follow my business?”
He gives an embarrassed shrug, and I’m surprisingly touched.
“It’s not Apple, but it seems to be doing well.”
“High praise,” I say, amused. “And I would love to talk business with you. But maybe not when there are thirty people downstairs in your living room?”
He winces. “Sorry about the party.”
“I don’t mind the party.”
“And yet here you are, hiding in your bedroom. I seem to remember that was always more Justin’s move during your mother’s parties.”
“Ha, that’s definitely true.” I smile at the memory.
Justin and I had been a pretty cut-and-dried introvert versus extrovert case study. He’d been personable enough when required, but if given the choice, he would choose books over people every time.
I’d never met a party or person I hadn’t liked. Even during my rebellious years, if we want to call them that, I still knew how to sparkle and shine, even if it was in a too-much-black-eyeliner kind of way, and not the pearls and discreet blush my mom would have preferred.
Hiding away from the crowd has never been my style, but my dad’s right. I am hiding out right now. I look down at my hands, trying to identify why I feel so atypically uncomfortable. It’s nothing that anyone’s said or done. Everyone’s been welcoming and seems genuinely glad to have me back.
And maybe that right there is exactly what’s making me uncomfortable. The fact that nobody’s even questioned my right to be here, in this house. The fact that everyone, from old teachers to old boyfriends, to my own parents, seems to think I belong here.
Even though I turned my back on all of them and have barely looked back over the course of ten years. I can tell myself whatever I want about my growth and change and maturity, but it doesn’t take away the fact that I could have done a lot of things better.
I look up at the ceiling. “How do you not hate me?”
“Biology,” my dad says without hesitation. “I’m physically required to love you.”
I laugh. “Fair enough. What about like? Do you like me?”
“I do,” he says, again without hesitation. “I’m not going to pretend to understand you any more now than I did back then. But I’ve had a few years to watch you from afar, and I get what you’re doing. I respect it.”
“What am I doing?”
“You’ve started your own business. Built something for yourself that’s all your own, nothing to do with your connection or the power of the Spencer name in this city.”
“Such modesty.”
“Pride,” he corrects. “Now, I could have gone with a few more visits over the years. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m proud of you.”
I blow out a long breath. “I have a lot to make up for, huh?”
“Showing up to your mother’s party is a good start. It meant a lot to her.”
“And hiding out in my bedroom? Was that on her wish list for the evening?” I ask dryly.
“Well, you escaped up here so that you had an opportunity to talk to your dear old dad, did you not?”
“Oh, absolutely,” I say, starting to take the easy out he’s offering, but then realizing I don’t want to start this tentative peace treaty between us with a pretense.