Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 104458 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104458 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 522(@200wpm)___ 418(@250wpm)___ 348(@300wpm)
“God, I was such an obnoxious brat. I knew my dad would take my side, he always did, and I think that’s when my mother and I started drifting apart.” She sighed and then laughed bitterly. “All this time I blamed the country club while I’d been pushing my mom and sisters away for years. Always aware of how different I was and practically blaming them for it.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being different, Daisy.”
“But I shoved it in their faces, and then when I realized how far out of reach they were, it was difficult to breach the gap.”
“But not impossible. They love you and you love them. And you’re not the same bratty, unicorn-collecting kid anymore.”
“Nah, I collect caterpillars now,” she reminded him.
“Yeah, I remember,” he said with a grimace. “I’ve been meaning to ask, why caterpillars? Why not butterflies?”
“Butterflies are boring,” she said. “They’ve already achieved the pinnacle of their existence. Caterpillars are beautiful and yet still have so much potential locked inside them. Weird, I know.”
“Maybe a little weird, but fascinating too.” And telling. Of course she collected caterpillars; a psychoanalyst would have a field day with Daisy and how she dealt with her many insecurities. Even her hobbies were a reflection of her self-doubt.
“Think about it, inside every single butterfly or moth there’s a contented little caterpillar,” she muttered smugly.
“Don’t you mean there’s a butterfly waiting to emerge from every caterpillar?”
“Meh, I prefer my interpretation. So much more fun to think that every pretty butterfly was once a fat, greedy little grub.” She chuckled wickedly, and he laughed at the pure malice in the sound.
“What were you like as a boy?” she asked, changing the subject abruptly.
“Pretty much what you’d expect. Spencer and I got into all kinds of trouble; luckily it was all petty shit that didn’t have life-altering repercussions.”
Daisy recalled something her father had said.
“Did you vandalize Mr. Richards’s store?”
“No, but I know who did.” She poked him on one hard bicep when he didn’t elaborate.
“Well?”
“Timmy Jr. did it.”
“Mr. Richards’s own son?” Well, that was news.
“Yeah, the little bastard figured Spencer and I would be blamed, and he was pissed off with his dad about something and trashed the place.” He shook his head in disgust. “The cops questioned us for three hours, and we were only thirteen and fifteen at the time. We both had solid alibis that night, though. Our mother was in hospital, and we didn’t leave her side until she died.”
She had forgotten their mother had passed away at a relatively young age and was ashamed she hadn’t asked him about his parents before.
“And the police kept you in custody, despite your mother dying?” She was horrified by the callousness of the adults in that situation. He pulled a face.
“We were the bad kids in town.”
“That makes no difference,” she seethed. “You were boys who had just lost your mother.”
“It was a long time ago, Daisy.” He had an amused tilt to his lips, but she could see the tension along the firm line of his jaw and knew he wasn’t as unaffected by the memory as he was pretending to be.
“And your father took care of you after that?” she asked, diverting the topic slightly.
“If you can call it taking care of us. He managed to stay out of jail until Spencer turned eighteen, which kept us out of foster care, but he wasn’t exactly interested in raising us. When he had money he saw to it that we had food, but when he didn’t he told us to figure something out. We became pretty good at shoplifting. Always food. Never anything else. We had standards, and we always wanted to be better than our circumstances permitted. The day Spencer turned eighteen the old man took off and we never saw him again. I guess I’m grateful he stuck around, but that’s about it.”
“You were still underage when Spencer left for college,” she suddenly realized, horrified.
“Yeah, but the house, old and dilapidated though it was, was ours, so I had a roof over my head. I also had two jobs at the time. Enough to keep myself clothed and fed and the water and heat on. Spencer sent money home too.”
“Why did nobody intervene? Where were your teachers, the counselors? Other adults?” He had fallen through the cracks, and nobody had known or cared. It brought tears to her eyes, and she tried to hide them from him, knowing he wouldn’t like anything resembling sympathy or pity.
“I kept a low profile. Good grades, stayed out of trouble, and if anybody asked I said my dad was back. Spencer didn’t want to leave me, he wanted to drag me to Grahamstown with him, but he would be living in a sponsored dorm, and having me there would have broken the rules and possibly resulted in him losing his scholarship.