Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79183 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
“Not going anywhere, sorry.” I rasp back.
“No, really.” She looks up at me. “Your dad was right.”
“He was wrong.” She shivers next to me. “Besides, what’s the worst that can happen at this point? He finds us cuddling. You know he slapped me? I’m so pissed at him, so fucking pissed—“
“—go find him, talk it out. You at least have a dad, Ambrose. I don’t condone hitting your kid, obviously, but he loves you.”
I roll my eyes. “Perfect, now you too?”
“I’m serious.” She grips me by the shoulders. “Go back downstairs and make it right.”
“You know I came in here to comfort you, and now you want me to leave?”
“Ambrose, I just think—“
“—you’re all the same! All of you! Everyone trying to think for me, decide for me, tell me what to do. I’m so over it!” I jump out of the bed, knowing I probably messed up again but so pissed and exhausted that I grab one of my team sweatshirts, run down the stairs, grab my tennis shoes, and go for a nearly four am run.
I blame them.
Both of them.
Why can’t I just live my life?
Why does everything have to be so complicated?
I’d left my phone in my room, so I don’t go far. About twenty minutes later, after laps around the neighborhood a mile over. I run back.
Only to find an ambulance and cop cars at the house.
What the hell?
Panic washes over me as I run up, all sweaty. “What’s going on?”
“Sir, this is a private matter we’re going to—“ It’s like the cop suddenly realizes who I am. “I think it’s best to talk with your mom.”
“Is she okay?” Oh God, what if my mom fell? Got in an accident? She hasn’t been feeling well lately.
I run my hands through my hair just as Mary-Belle comes out of the house covered in a blanket, her eyes haunted.
“Mary-Belle!” I yell her name, but it’s like she doesn’t see me as she stumbles to the ground and sits. “Mary-Belle.”
“I tried,” she whispers. “I tried to fix it.”
“Fix what?” I’m wrapping the blanket tighter around her when my mom walks up to me, tears streaming down her face. “Fix what?”
“You!” Mom screams at Mary-Belle.
“Mom!” I yell. “Stop it! Can’t you see she’s scared?”
“Scared? Scared?” Mom’s voice raises. “She killed him!”
“I was trying to fix it,” Mary-Belle whispers again and again. “Fix it to make Ambrose and his dad happy. When I walked in, he was already on the ground, so I tried to fix it, to save him.”
“You.” Mom shoves Mary-Belle back against the cold grass. “You didn’t fix it. You killed him!”
Chapter Nine
Mary-Belle
“Sir?” I yell and run toward him. “Sir?” He’s on the floor, his salt and pepper hair—normally slicked back—off to the side. His mouth is open, his eyes too. I rush over to him, put him on his back, and start CPR right away.
I can barely remember how to do compressions but know it’s important. He looks up at me, and his mouth moves.
I’m haunted by it.
I stare as I continue compressions, then scramble for the new phone he gave me that I’ve somehow dropped next to him.
When did I drop it?
I shakily dial nine one one, put it on speaker, and continue compressions as he stares up at the ceiling like he knows.
He knows.
“Stay with me!” I scream.
Another scream sounds—it’s Ambrose’s mom.
“You whore!” she yells. “So this was the big secret, huh? She’s sleeping with you?”
I’m so confused and disoriented that all I can do is keep pushing down on his chest and hope that it does something like keep his heart beating while she’s continuing to break it over and over again with her words.
Tears stream down my face as she yells, my arms burn, my palms, my fingers—while I don’t know Ambrose super well, I know this will devastate him.
It’s his father.
And as much as he didn’t want the dynasty—he wants the father.
She starts shouting, then grabs a glass sniffer of whiskey and throws it onto the ground. I think she’s drunk, but I have no time to even ask as I continue pressing into his chest.
He sucks in a breath, his eyes roll back, and I pray this isn’t the end as Ambrose’s mom continues throwing things around the room like he isn’t just dying in front of us.
“Stay with me,” I whisper.
“Oh, you’d like that, bitch!” she yells.
Hot tears stream down my cheeks, falling onto his limp body as he stares up at me; his blue eyes don’t look away, almost like he needs to tell me something. It’s a pensive yet holy moment. His wife stomps away in her expensive sweats and equally expensive tennis shoes.
“…Yes! Hurry the hell up! He’s not responsive!” she yells into the phone. I didn’t even realize she still had it in her hand. Finally, she falls into a chair. “They’re on their way!”