Total pages in book: 174
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
My dad stares at Conrad in confusion or rather in thought before saying, “Are you actually ins —”
But he’s cut off by a couple of new arrivals who want to talk to him and so he gets pulled away. And I breathe a sigh of relief. Actually I just breathe.
Because I haven’t done that ever since Conrad started talking to my dad.
Looking up at him, I say, “What was that? Are you insane? You just insulted my dad at his birthday party.” Then, “In a way that I don’t think he really got, but still.”
And I think that’s because no one has actually insulted my dad to his face. Especially not at his own party.
Conrad was staring at my dad, but at my words, he focuses on me. “Public prosecutor, huh?”
“Are you listening to me? What —”
“Well, my deepest sympathies. To the public,” he deadpans.
And then I have to press my lips together.
I have to.
Because I can’t believe I want to laugh. And this is not a laughing situation. This could’ve been a disaster. And I tell him that. “I’m not sure what you were trying to do here. I’ve already told you to back off and —”
“What I’m trying to do,” he bites out, cutting me off, “is make you realize that you need to stop.”
“Stop what?”
He breathes sharply, looking down at me. “You said I inspired you that night, yeah? That I inspired you to stand up for yourself and for your art.” He scoffs. “Then stop fucking punishing yourself for raising your voice. Stop punishing yourself for standing up. Stop fucking coddling your piece of shit parents because they can’t handle who you are. Stop trying to forever please them because once in your life you did something for yourself. Stop apologizing for being an artist and be a goddamn artist.”
I want to say something then.
I really do.
Only I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what I could say.
And before I get the chance to form some sort of a reply, I get pulled away like my dad. By my mother, and the night turns even more disastrous after that.
Because not once do I get to talk to Conrad.
Not once do I get to be close to him.
First, I’m busy helping my mom with the arrangements and things. And then when we get a moment to breathe from those, my mom pulls me in for introductions. At which point my dad joins in and then there’s no escape after that; the media descends over us, photos and camera clicks and so many people. To make matters worse, when the music starts my mom sends me off to dance with the people she has introduced me to — a couple of college guys.
And it feels wrong.
It has always felt that way.
But before I’d tolerate it to keep the peace, to keep my parents happy, because they’ve already been so unhappy with me. But today this guy’s strange arms and even stranger body make me almost sick. It makes me angry. It suffocates me more than usual.
It makes me look for him in the crowd again.
And there he is, standing at the edge of this little makeshift dancing area, staring at me. Staring at the guy with such ferocity. With a tightness that torments my own heart and I get it.
I finally, finally get it.
What he was trying to say. What he was trying to tell me, and he was right.
He was absolutely right.
I’ve always felt guilty for being who I am, an artist. I’ve always tried to apologize, to make up for my deficiencies as the daughter of a famous lawyer. And that feeling has only grown after what I did to my dad’s car, and so I’ve been overcompensating for it. I’ve been trying to please them harder, keep the peace at all costs. I’m even keeping my decision to go to art school from them.
And with the arms of another guy around me and Conrad watching with seething fury, I realize that I’m not going to do it anymore. I’m not going to apologize anymore.
I need to stop.
Like he told me to.
God, I’ve been such an idiot.
So when he turns away from the dance floor, his demeanor tight and angry, I stop dancing.
I step back from the guy and, saying sorry to him, I leave the dance floor too.
I cut through the crowd, sweeping my eyes all over, trying to look for him. But he’s nowhere to be found. So I leave the party area and head toward the house itself, toward the French doors where waiters and guests are coming in and out in the hope that I can catch him on his way out.
I’m in the hallway now, dashing through it, still looking for him, when out of the blue, someone grabs my hand rather tightly, effectively stopping my search and pulling me inside a bathroom. They close the door behind me with a bang and settle me against it and I’m so jarred, so shocked, that I let it all happen.