Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“Do you want to be friends?” He arches a brow. “With the man who traumatized you as a child?”
“You weren’t much more than a kid, either. My mom basically cradle-robbed you,” I say, uncomfortable with the directness of his gaze.
Does this man ever give casual eye contact? Or is it always this “looking through your skin to the secrets of your soul” thing, twenty-four seven?
“I was twenty-three, almost twenty-four,” he says. “About the age you are now. Do you consider yourself a kid?”
I squirm a little before I shrug again. “No, but I’m a girl. A girl who had to grow up fast and started working part time on a lobster boat when she was thirteen. I’m sure privileged rich boys grow up slower.” He stares at me, silently challenging my words until I feel forced to add, “And even if you were a full-fledged adult, it doesn’t matter. It’s still true that you didn’t make my family any promises. My parents did and they both broke them—Mom by cheating and Dad by choosing the pub over his family every night.” I turn, feigning the need to check in with the navigation system as I add, “Though beating the shit out of him probably wasn’t called for.”
“You’re right,” he says without missing a beat, surprising me. “I wasn’t in control of my anger back then. He punched me and I…” He clears his throat before continuing. “I barely remember the fight. I just remember your mother pulling me away from him. I had another altercation like that not long after, when I was back in the city. I didn’t remember much of that, either. I started therapy to get control of my anger afterward, and I’ve never hurt anyone like that again, but it doesn’t excuse the things I did when I was younger. I owe your father an apology. I can arrange to give him one, if you’d like.”
I snort, torn between being impressed with his willingness to apologize—that isn’t a common trait in most of the rich men I’ve met, or men in general—and sad about the whole fucked up situation.
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say, glancing his way as I guide the yacht a bit closer to shore, now that we’re clear of the shallow water near town. “Dad isn’t the same guy he was back then. The car wreck did a number on his head, and he never cut back on the drinking. If anything, it got worse after he was out of the hospital. He was living alone and Gramps was taking care of me and paying all of his bills. He had no responsibilities or reason to get his act together.”
“You deserved so much more.”
I sigh, rolling my eyes. “Please, don’t. I don’t want your pity. I don’t deserve it. I’ve had a great life. My grandfather loves me to the moon and back and my friends’ parents stepped in whenever I needed help with something he couldn’t manage on his own. Maya’s dad tutored me in math and Elaina’s mom helped me through my first period and we all lived happily ever after.”
“Except your father.”
“But that wasn’t your fault.”
“I know,” he says. “It wasn’t yours, either.”
My lips part on a protest, but I swallow it down. Obviously, it isn’t my fault that my father’s a drunk who failed his family, but there are times when I feel guilty for not doing more. I could have gone to see him after school more often as a kid or tried harder to get him into treatment. I already know he wouldn’t have gone, but I could have doubled down on the effort.
I’ve had enough therapy to know that persistent guilt and fear that you’re “not doing enough” are common feelings for adult children of alcoholics. But knowing the reason for a thing isn’t always enough to keep the thing from making you feel like shit.
Which means it’s time to change the subject. I’ve had enough feeling like shit in my life. I don’t need any more of that, especially on my day off.
But I have one last shitty thing I need to ask first.
“So, were you and my mom…” I trail off, my throat tight. “Did you…”
“No,” he says. “We’d only been out once before the night we ran into your father. Afterwards, it became clear Tracy Sullivan wasn’t good for me. I didn’t attempt to contact her again.”
“She wasn’t good for anyone,” I say. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe she’s good for her new husband. They’ve been married a while now and she looks swanky in the photos on his company website. She’s definitely had Botox and whatever else older women do to keep it tight. She looks like she could be my sister.” I laugh. “I’ll probably look older than she does, soon. If I stay out on the water and keep forgetting to wear sunscreen.”