Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 117177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
I shook my head. “It would just be running away.”
“That’s your father talking again.” She stood to face me, fire in her eyes that I’d never seen in my mom’s until the end. Mom appeased everyone for the sake of harmony. Perfect for my father, since he didn’t want anyone to challenge him. But when she was dying, I remember seeing that fire in her eyes when she begged me to be happy no matter what it was in life that would make me happy. The memory got to me as Richelle continued insistently, “Traveling will help. Experiencing other cultures, you know that changes you, shapes you. I think it would give you the clarity you need to take the next step in your career.”
Or drive an even deeper wedge between me and my father.
Because as much as traveling might make me happy, I couldn’t deny that, as much as I didn’t understand him, as angry as he made me, I didn’t want to lose him too.
“I’ll think about it,” I lied.
Disappointment clouded Aunt Richelle’s face. “No, you won’t.”
“It’s not just about him,” I told her softly.
Her expression told me she didn’t believe me.
“Aunt Richelle . . .”
She gave a heavy sigh, squeezed my shoulder, and said, “Whatever you decide, I’m here.”
I watched her disappear into the house before I turned to stare out at the rainstorm. Despite her best intentions, the indecision that rode my shoulders before our talk now felt crushing.
Sitting down on the porch swing, I ignored the chill in the air as the sky darkened. Richelle popped her head out again to let me know dinner was ready, but I told her I wasn’t hungry. She said the food was there when I wanted it, and then she left me alone.
Guilt clung to me.
A while later, it was so dark—the moon hidden behind clouds—I could no longer see the ocean; I could only hear it rushing against the shore. There was something particularly soothing about it tonight.
I’d switched my phone on silent because I’d been getting a few calls from unknown numbers, but it meant I’d probably missed another call from my father. Filled with dread but needing to know, I pulled my phone out of my pocket. Sure enough, there were several missed calls and one of them was from him. There were also a couple of new voice mails. However, my gaze snagged on the notification banner from my email. I had another message from Kate.
Ignoring everything else, I tapped on that notification.
Chris,
She sent another. What do you want me to do going forward?
Kate
Something like anticipation filled me as I tapped open the video. Hallie Goodman’s face filled the screen, and a smile prodded my lips. This time she looked more put together. Her hair was styled and longer than I realized. It fell over her shoulders and out of shot of the camera. She wore a black silk shirt. Makeup perfect.
“Fuck. My. Life.”
Her opening line made me chuckle. “Yeah, I hear you,” I muttered.
Hallie blew out air between her lips and slumped forward in her seat, elbows on her desk. That silky pink hair fell into her face as she bemoaned a lunch meeting with her dad.
“Let me just preface this by saying, I love my dad and he deserves happiness after what my mom put him through—”
I wondered what that was exactly.
“But I can admit to feeling pissed at him for three things.” She held up a finger. “One, he treats my job with no respect. He asks me to plan his girlfriend’s bratty daughter’s birthday party for free and acts hurt when I tell him I’m snowed under with work. No respect for my time or how stressful my job is. Two.” She held up a second finger, and I saw pain flicker in her gaze. I sucked in a breath, holding my phone closer to my face. “He never even showed up at my sixteenth-birthday party. And I don’t care if I sound like a whining five-year-old when I say this, but I resent that he’s spending all this time with this kid who isn’t even his. I don’t care about the fancy house or the fancy clothes that she’s getting that I never got, I’ve never cared about that—that’s my mom’s gig . . . I care that every time I asked him to spend time with me growing up, I got a kiss on the head and an ‘I’m sorry, Cupcake, Daddy’s gotta work, but we’ll do something together later.’ Did later come? Did it like hell.” She glowered at the screen. “And now I have to give up time I don’t have to plan this party for a girl who is the most spoiled little shit I’ve ever encountered. The last time I had dinner with them, she was rude to me about my appearance, my job, my boyfriend at the time, and she monopolized most of the dinner, begging her mom for fifty bucks to go shopping with her friends the next day. I am not exaggerating when I say she repeated the word ‘please’ for five minutes straight. It felt longer. And her mom caved. I would have shoved the fifty bucks in her mouth.”