Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116028 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 580(@200wpm)___ 464(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
“Did you go to court and tell the judge which parent you wanted to live with?” Summer asks curiously. “Wouldn’t that have solved the whole custody battle?”
“You’d think. I did go to court. Well, it was more of a conference room with a bunch of tables, but there was a judge.”
I cringe even thinking about it. I remember holding a social worker’s hand as she led me into the room and asked me to sit down. My parents were seated next to their respective lawyers. Mom was pleading at me with her eyes. Dad gave me that encouraging look that said, ‘I know you’ll make the right decision.’ Everyone was staring at me. It was fucking brutal.
“The judge asked me to describe my routine at each of their houses.” I absently rub Summer’s knuckles. “She asked me questions about what I ate, whether I enjoyed playing hockey—a bunch of questions that made me realize they’d told the lawyers everything I’d ever said to them. And then the judge asked me who I wanted to live with.”
Summer’s breath hitches. “Who did you pick?”
My lips twitch in amusement. “I pleaded the Fifth.”
Her jaw drops. “You were twelve, and you pleaded the Fifth?”
“Yup. I think I saw someone do it on CSI or some shit.” I snicker. “The judge said I couldn’t do that and urged me to pick. So I said both. I wanted to live with both.” I offer a wry smile. “She awarded them joint custody, which was what they’d started off with. She said she felt it was better for my mental and emotional wellbeing to spend equal time with both of them.”
“Did things get better after that? Did your parents settle down?”
“Nope. They kept trash-talking each other to me. Still do to this day, though not as bad as before.”
She frowns. “How’d you deal with it when you were growing up?”
“By becoming invisible,” I say roughly. “I mean, there was one rebellious phase where I got my first tat behind their back and dared them to pay attention to me, but mostly I hid in my room. As long as they couldn’t see me, they weren’t able to poison me against each other.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through all that.”
I shrug.
“You’re doing it again,” she teases with a smile. “Okay, listen. I know you’re used to having your feelings twisted into something negative, but I promise you, anything you tell me will stay in our sacred trust circle. I will never, ever report it to the judge.”
I find myself smiling back. “I’m sorry. Bad habit. I’ll try to break it.” I shoot her a stern look. “But only if you promise to stop being so hard on yourself. You’ve got to stop telling yourself you’re stupid.”
“I’ll try,” she says, and I suppose I can’t ask for more than that. “Are you hungry? I never ended up having dinner.”
I want to ask her why not, what happened on the date with Hunter, but I tamp down the urge. I really don’t want to kill the mood by bringing up another guy. That can wait till tomorrow.
I want tonight to be about just me and Summer.
25
Summer
“My French girls have got nothing on you,” Fitz informs me three nights later.
From the floor of his bedroom, I lift my gaze off the papers in my lap and stick my tongue out at him. And then I realize he’s not joking. A mixture of awe and appreciation shines in his brown eyes as he stares at me.
“You’re stunning,” he insists.
“Stop,” I order. “You’re going to make me blush.”
“Yeah right. Compliments don’t make you blush. You love ’em.”
Well, sure. I do. But the intensity on his face is a tad unnerving. We’ve gone back to our he-draws-me-while-I-write-my-essay routine, but usually he doesn’t say much while he sketches, and he certainly doesn’t throw around words like “stunning.”
I tend to do most of the talking, reading bits of my paper aloud to him and trying to vocalize my thoughts before I put them down on the page. His presence helps my concentration, if I’m being honest. It’s as if it creates a sense of accountability for me. The midterm is due in a few days, but I’m actually feeling good about it. Not saying it’s A-material, but I’d be perfectly content with a B or C.
Fitz studies his sketch. His biceps flex as he shifts one arm and scrapes the pencil over the page to add another detail.
Lord, he is hotter than a five-alarm fire. In appearance, and in body temperature, I’m discovering. He stripped off his T-shirt ten minutes into our study/sketch session, taunting me with his ripped chest. I honestly don’t know how my ADHD brain has managed to remain focused on my schoolwork.
“Stunning,” he says again, this time mumbling it under his breath. “I can see why other women are threatened by you.”