Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m okay.” I wait until the three girls are out of the room before I continue. “I was just thinking in a few months I’m going to be a mom.” My sobs get harder as I admit the truth to my family for the first time. “He was so mean, and I was so weak.” I shake my head. “He would call me names and tell me I’m fat and should lose weight. And instead of leaving, I joined the gym. But then he accused me of cheating and forced me to quit.” Tears fly down my face as I rush to get everything out.
“And he wouldn’t let me work. I told you guys I didn’t want to continue my photography business, but I was lying. He wouldn’t let me. He gave me an allowance. A fucking allowance.” I choke on my sobs. It feels almost cathartic to finally tell my family everything. “He would only have sex with me when he was drunk. He was cheating on me with God knows how many women.” I bury my face in my hands, completely embarrassed, but Willow pulls them away.
“Don’t do that,” she demands. “Don’t you hide. You have nothing to be embarrassed of.”
“I’m okay,” I repeat my earlier words. “Even though my husband was a horrible, despicable person, before he died he gave me the most precious gift.” I cover my belly with my hands. “I was scared to admit I was pregnant. Terrified what my life would look like raising a baby with him. I thought about running away and never looking back. But he’s dead.” I smile because I’m finally free. “And I’m going to love my baby with everything in me. I’m going to be the best damn mother I can be.”
Celeste and Willow both smile back, Jase looks like if Rick were still alive, he would find him and murder him, and Jax looks at me with brotherly love.
“So, where do you go from here?” Celeste asks. “What can we do?”
“First things first, I’m changing my last name back to Crawford, and then I’m going to take it one day at a time. It’s time I finally find myself.”
“And we’ll be here for you every step of the way,” Jase says, “just like you were there for me while I was trying to figure out how to raise Sky, how to navigate being a single dad.” Jase pulls me into his arms for a hug. “We’re family, Quinn. Let us be there for you, please.”
Four
Quinn
Five Years Later
“But Mom,” Kinsley whines, “I don’t want to go to the tattoo shop. It’s not fair.” I look in the rearview mirror at my frowning five year old daughter. She still has leftover tears in her eyes, and a red nose from all the crying that ensued about twenty minutes ago in the front office of her school as she threw herself onto the ground in a breakdown of epic proportions. During which time, I was forced to pick her up and carry her to the car, all while she screamed and cried and told me I was the worst mom ever.
As I drive to Forbidden Ink, the tattoo shop my brothers own, I remember my daughter isn’t always like this. She’s generally a very sweet and adaptable child. But today, she’s mad at me. Because in the chaos and insanity of dealing with two engagement parties, a wedding, and a pregnancy photoshoot, all this week, I forgot Kinsley needed to be at school early for a field trip. The entire kindergarten class was going to the science museum and my little girl was counting down the days. Literally. With a red pen on our calendar that’s pinned to the wall in our kitchen. She lives for the science museum, is obsessed with everything science related.
When we got to the school, late, we were told she would have to remain in the office all day because her teacher isn’t there. I suggested taking her to the science museum and dropping her off, but was told, legally they can’t allow that. Which left me no choice but to take my very pissed off and disappointed child to the tattoo shop, so Willow and my brothers can keep an eye on her while I drive across the city to the pregnancy shoot I’m already late for.
“I’m sorry, Kinsley,” I say, for what feels like the millionth time. There’s no worse feeling than that of a mother who’s let her child down. “I’ll make it up to you. This weekend, you and me, science museum all day. We’ll get there before it opens and stay until they kick us out.”
She lets out a frustrated huff, crossing her tiny little arms over her chest, and glares my way. It’s during moments like these, when her features are put on display, I’m reminded of how much she looks like her father. I’m not about to blame the genetic card for her attitude. She doesn’t have an ounce of malice or cruelty in her body. But with her shockingly bright azure eyes, light brown hair, and willowy body, Kinsley Crawford might’ve resided in my belly for nine months, and share the same last name as me, but she, one hundred percent, looks like her father—well, aside for our skin type. My poor girl inherited my pale complexion that alerts everyone, whether we want it to or not, of every emotion we’re feeling.