Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 134531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 538(@250wpm)___ 448(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 538(@250wpm)___ 448(@300wpm)
“Because it wasn’t your job to see that, sweetheart,” I interrupted softly, cupping her cheek. “It was my job to make sure you didn’t see that.”
Violet was still frowning. “I’m not sure I agree, Momma,” she argued just as softly. “But I want to understand. I want us to talk about what really happened with Daddy.” She sighed. “But first, I would really, really like to have margaritas with your friends. And I’d like to see the man who created this,” she waved her hand down my body. Then she scrunched her nose up. “No, that’s not right. The man who gave you the opportunity to grow into this.”
I was dumbfounded by the complexity of what my daughter understood, things that I’d been so sure I’d hidden. Things that I’d been sure were much too adult for my child to comprehend.
But there it was, the truth that she was no longer a child.
I smiled. “We can do that, although you will be limited on the margaritas. Macy has a very strong pour.” I thought back to a blurry night only a couple of weeks ago when I’d had four of those margaritas, then Swiss and I had had sex on the patio.
Then I blinked my daughter back into focus, chastising myself for thinking about sex in her presence.
My daughter rolled her eyes. “Mom, you know I was in Europe where the drinking age is eighteen, and it’s safe to say I’ve developed a tolerance.”
I felt comfort in the familiar dynamic, in seeing the eye roll, hearing the sarcastic tone.
“We’ll see,” I muttered, deciding now was not the time to argue with my daughter about alcohol consumption, even though she might’ve technically been right.
“Towels are in the bathroom. Let me know if you need anything else.” I leaned forward to kiss her head. “I’m so glad you’re here, honey.”
Violet’s eyes shone. “Me too, Mom,” she said sincerely.
My walk back toward the kitchen was somehow lighter. Though there was a crapload of shit to wade through, my daughter did not hate me. My daughter was… dare I say, happy for me? My daughter was a well-rounded, sensible young adult who was compassionate and caring.
Yeah, the walk was lighter. But I was still dragging a very heavy anvil of truth. One that I was wrestling with.
“Figured you’d need this.” Macy handed me a freshly made margarita with a salted rim.
I took it thankfully. “Yeah, I really fucking do.”
“Fucking,” Macy repeated, sipping her own. “It must be intense then.”
Although I cursed now, I did it mostly in the confines of the bedroom with Swiss, when we were naked. Or when I sliced into my finger cooking dinner. I enjoyed the act of it, it felt rebellious. Yet I was still somehow hesitant, too, still acting a part that no longer belonged to me.
Macy knew me. Noticed things, just like the rest of the women did. They noticed things and didn’t pretend they didn’t see them, didn’t use those perceived weaknesses as footholds for manipulation. No, they cared. They changed our interactions accordingly.
I glanced to the hall where I could still hear the water running and Violet singing in the background. She had a beautiful voice, and I’d loved the idea of her becoming a singer. But, of course, that hadn’t lined up with her father’s expectations. Anything in the arts was considered ‘crude.’
Satisfied that she wouldn’t hear, I sank onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar.
“She wants to know more,” I told Macy. “About why her father and I broke up.”
“And you think telling her that he’s a piece of shit who beat you for years and almost killed you might cause a boatload of trauma?” Macy guessed.
I grinned weakly, taking another long sip. “Bingo,” I muttered.
Macy didn’t say anything, didn’t press me, she just waited as I processed.
“I don’t know what to do,” I whispered.
Macy sat watching me, her eyes filled with sympathy but not pity. She had an energy about her that put me at ease, even with all the thoughts swirling around my head. There was a… calmness to her.
“He’s a vile man,” I continued after I took another large sip. “Evil, to his core. Of that I am certain. But he is her father. He’s her hero. He is the man she is going to model all of her relationships after. And he’s always treated her well.” My mind wandered to the singular time Preston had even come close to losing it with Violet.
He had some important client over. Someone from out of town. Someone who was a big fish in a pond much larger than the one Preston swam in.
I’d been a mess all week, trying to plan the menu, clean the house, design a table setting and make sure I had the right flowers, candles and outfit for the occasion. I knew that my punishment would be unlike anything else if I screwed something up. I had been walking on eggshells all week, terrified, anxious, barely sleeping. All the while, I had tried to make sure Violet didn’t notice the change in the atmosphere.