Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 62641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62641 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 313(@200wpm)___ 251(@250wpm)___ 209(@300wpm)
Without waiting for an answer or even offering me an explanation on what salty means, because I’m sure she wasn’t referring to actual seasoning—apparently, I haven’t kept up with the lingo as of late—Feeney storms out of the room.
Out the front door.
Away from the house.
Out of my life.
And out of Shade’s life.
I remain on the couch for a few minutes, wallowing in self-pity and regret. I’m angry with myself, Feeney’s parents, and whoever or whatever is out there for taking Britt away from me. I’m angry that I could never let myself be happy and how I didn’t even know what it meant. I’m pissed at myself for being pissed about that because none of this had anything to do with Britt dying. This had everything to do with me, just as Feeney said. It was all me. Well, me and her dad, but mostly me. I was the one who lied to her. Her parents, at least, tried to tell her straight up. I was the one who went along with this horrendously stupid plan.
I wallow.
I curse myself.
I breathe in and out so sloppily and hastily that I nearly hyperventilate.
My eyes stray back to the TV, to the stupid game I had playing there. You know, half an hour ago, when things were relatively normal. And by normal, I mean significantly less fucked up for me but still ultra-fucked up because who does that? Who does what I did? Feeney has more than a point.
I deserve to lose her and every bit of goodness I’ve found. Every shred of happiness, every scrap of decency, I deserve it.
But I can’t let it happen.
I quickly leap off the couch as if someone ass punched me from below, then I reach for my phone. Only, it’s not there. Of course it’s not there.
I run out the back and finally find it in the grass, right by the deck. I hastily punch in the number for Feeney’s parents because I know it’s where she’s heading. Unlike me, she doesn’t believe in cowering and hiding, and unlike me, she believes in standing up for herself. Also, unlike me, she is not a piece of salty shit.
Maybe a little bit of Feeney’s goodness rubbed off on me because as the phone starts ringing, I already know what I have to do.
CHAPTER 23
Feeney
This madness is going to end, and it’s going to end now.
I don’t so much enter my parent’s house as I do storm in. Behind me, Luke’s car is in the driveway because I didn’t have any other choice. And it’s not like he won’t get it back. My dad will have someone drive it over as soon as I leave without it. I’ll even be nice and leave the keys.
Within minutes, both my parents come fluttering into the entranceway. The house is crazy huge, and after being in Luke’s house for a month, getting used to things on a far less grand and way more scaled-down size, everything seems disproportionately large. And shiny. Good lord, I don’t remember it ever being this bright in here. The lights overhead glisten off the marble tile in the entrance.
I’m not going in any further, even when I see how worried both my parents look as they come running. Obviously, Luke called them because it took me forever to get over here. He had time, and obviously, he found his phone.
I know they know because they both look guilty. They also look exactly how I remember—finely tuned. Not ritzy or anything, but wearing expensive, designer clothes. My dad in dress pants and a dress shirt. I think he sleeps in that outfit because I’ve never seen him wear anything else. My mom is dressed to match, in black pants and a red sweater with a black and white scarf tied at her neck.
I don’t want to soften, and I can’t soften because mixed in with all that guilt, I sense concern. Also, frantic worry because I’m their daughter, and they don’t want anything bad to happen to me. They never wanted me to get hurt.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” I cross my arms just like I did at Luke’s. “You’ve all gone insane. I can’t believe you were going to trade me off to someone just so you could merge his company with yours and kill your competition. I can’t believe you talked him into it! Am I just some old shirt you swap out for a new one when the time’s right? Or rather, when you get sick of having me around, you make me someone else’s problem, but you make sure to do it to get a nice tidy bonus out of it? Did you have me only to one day barter me in exchange for something else? I keep thinking this isn’t the Victorian era, but I think I’m wrong. You’re both definitely living in the wrong time.”