Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 470(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
As I see the house for the first time in weeks, my heart squeezes, because no matter how much time passes and how much changes, this place will always feel like home. In the circle drive, I throw the car in park and fly up the square staircase, unlocking the door and stepping inside quickly, so I can disable the alarm.
The code is my birthday backwards. I picture Cross pressing the keys, probably standing in this very spot wearing old jeans and one of his bomber jackets, and my throat aches.
I’m here for one thing and one thing only, and that’s Dad’s new phone number. I don’t keep it in my cell, because it’s too enticing. I don’t allow myself to call on a whim. When Dad wants to talk to me, he calls, and as soon as we’re finished talking, I delete the number from my call log. It’s a Salt Lake City number, so it’s not one I could accidentally memorize.
When I call from the rotary phone in our vast, dark kitchen, I’m grateful that it’s new wife Lyndsey who answers and not one of her daughters, Fern, thirteen, or Hollow, nine. Her hello is flat and Midwestern; I can almost see her on the other end of the line, clutching a cordless phone and standing in a slightly dated kitchen. The picture of normal: that’s Dad’s new family.
“Um, hi Lyndsey, it’s Elizabeth.”
She pauses for a second then responds in a crisp, telemarketer-sounding voice. “Elizabeth. Can I help you?” Whoa, her tone is brisk. I swallow back my irritation.
“Yeah. I want to talk to my dad.” Biotch. I want to stick my tongue out and tell her he was my dad first, but instead I calmly say, “Is he around?”
“He is.” I think she’s gone to get him when I hear a breathing sound and Lyndsey says my name again. “Elizabeth?”
“I’m here.”
“I know you are. Uh—” There’s a fuzzy sound, like she’s covering up the phone’s mouthpiece. When she speaks again, her voice is tight. “Elizabeth, is this about your mother?”
Now it’s my turn to be surprised. And peeved. “Why do you ask?”
Lyndsey sighs. “I know that she’s in rehab again, Elizabeth.”
“Yeah. That’s not news.” I squeeze my eyes shut, wanting to bang my head against the kitchen wall. What the hell does Lyndsey care what my mom’s up to?
“I know it’s how things are there, but it’s not normal here for us.” She pauses, like she’s rallying herself, and I try to put my armor on, because I can tell this is going to get me right between the ribs. “Your father is damaged from what he went through with…your mother. You know how she treated him. But when things happen with her, he still feels responsible. That’s not healthy.”
I inhale deeply and slowly, trying not to lose my shit. “Um, well, of course he does. He was married to her for more than twenty years.” I inhale again, fighting to control my temper. “Anyway, I’m not calling about my mom, so can I talk to my dad now please?”
I hear silence, and for a long moment, I think she’s hung up. Then my dad is on the phone.
“Elizabeth.”
“Hi, Dad.” In the background, I can hear a girl’s voice, and I know it’s one of them. Fern or Hollow. “One of my new girls.” I lean my head against the wall. “Look Dad, I just had a quick question for you.”
“Okay. What’s your question?”
I wrap the curly cord of the olive green phone around my finger, biting my lip, because I hate to ask this—but I have no choice. “I was wondering if I could get a loan. From the DeVille Trust, or from you.”
My words are followed by a long pause, during which I honestly have no idea what he will say. Then I hear a sort-of snort.
“Elizabeth, we’ve talked about this. You can’t spend money like your mother used to. I know it’s hard for you, growing up the way you did, but this is life now and you’re twenty-three—”
“Dad, I’m not. I’m not spending any money.” I clench my jaw, breathing deeply as my pulse races. “I never buy anything. It’s not for me.”
Pause. “So you are calling for your mother?”
“No.” I grit my teeth as rage builds in me, aching underneath my breastbone and radiating out over my shoulders like venom from a snake bite. I huff my breath out, so pissed that I’m seeing stars. “Dad, did you tell Lyndsey to screen my phone calls?”
“Screen your calls? Of course not. Lyndsey would never do something like that. She cares a lot about our relationship—yours and mine, that is.”
I can feel my lower lip tremble. “Why don’t I believe you?”
He sighs, and it’s the sigh he used to save for Mom. I get the eerie feeling Lyndsey is standing right beside him, encouraging him, with her deep brown eyes, to stick it to me.