“What the fuck are you thinking?” I hissed, my rage barely containable.
“I …” Her voice shook, and she looked at me like I was about to hurt her. “I didn’t think.”
“Damn straight you didn’t.”
“Westie, I swear, I would never …”
Easton and Grace slid back into the kitchen. He dragged his chair closer to Grace. Mom was shooting worried glances her way, her eyes wide and bottomless with emotion.
“Why,” Mom said shakily, to inject some words into the awkward silence, “I wish I had dessert to offer you, Grace. How about some coffee, though?”
“She doesn’t want any coffee,” I snapped, getting up from my chair. The last thing I wanted was for my mother to talk to Texas. I couldn’t afford Mom telling Grace my big secret. My this-is-why-he-is-so-fucked-up reason. “Grace was just leaving.”
I quirked an eyebrow and scowled at Texas meaningfully.
Her eyes were two pools of shock, but I didn’t let myself look away.
Hurting her hurt me, and I deserved all the pain in the universe.
“Certainly,” I heard Grace say tightly. She stood up, reaching to hug my mother. “It was lovely to meet you, Mrs. St. Claire.”
“You too, sweetheart. And again, I’m so sorry.”
“Let me walk you out.” Easton grimaced.
I knew I looked like a world-class jerk, but I figured whatever mess I’d created was salvageable with Grace. If I apologized and explained myself, we could still hang out and work together.
If she found out the truth about me through my mother, however, she wouldn’t be able to look at me again.
East and Grace walked to the door. My mother swiveled in my direction, her face twisting in horror. “The poor girl.”
“You were the one who took off her hat,” I said flatly.
“You kicked her out. I’ve never known you to be this cruel.”
Have you ever known me at all, Mother?
“Know what else is cruel? You showing up here. Barging into my shit like we haven’t been strangers for the past goddamn five years. Making me pasta and meatballs for the first time in half a decade doesn’t make up for all the time you haven’t showed your face, Caroline. And before you give me the I-distanced-myself-from-you bullshit”—I raised my hand to stop her, because I knew what was coming; her mouth already hung open, ready to fire back—“You were supposed to be the responsible adult between us. You were supposed to reach out to me. I send you money each week. Do me a fucking favor and pay me back by never contacting me again.”
Her eyes were full of tears. Her lower lip shook.
“Yes,” she breathed. “That’s right. You are helping us out financially. Doing what, exactly? Can you remind me? TA, was it?”
I could tell she was burning on the edges of hysteria.
I’d told my parents I was working as a TA, making money doing some tutoring on the side. They bought it because I had a natural knack for math and statistics, but as time went by and the money got really good, they must’ve been having their doubts.
“Didn’t know money’s this good in TA,” Mom said.
I threw her a patronizing smirk. “You would if you’d ever gone to college.”
“I didn’t have that opportunity.” Something dark and depraved that reminded me of myself crossed her features. “You know that.”
“That’s right.” I snapped my fingers. “You were knocked up with me by seventeen, right? Great fucking life choices. Please, give me more advice about how to run my shit.”
I shouldered past her to my room. She chased me, an angry scream ripping from her throat. Easton was still outside. Asshole probably used the opportunity to walk Grace home, now that he’d finally taken notice of the fact she was beautiful.
And you gave him the OK to ask her out. Nice going, moron.
“West! Please!” Mom was at my heel. I slammed the door in her face. Then opened it again, realizing I didn’t get the chance to deliver the final verbal blow.
“Get out of my house.” I pointed at the door. “You had no right using the hard-earned money I send you every week to buy a plane ticket. Splashing on me with my own money doesn’t pass as good parenting either.”
I grabbed one of the shopping bags from the floor, turning it upside down and emptying it at her feet. Shirts and socks rained down in a heap of cheap fabric. I thundered toward the door, opening it for her, pointing out.
“West.” Mom still stood at the hallway, her knees buckling. She sent a hand to the wall to right herself. She looked helpless, small, and out of sorts. Problem was, she was always hopeless. For years, she’d been the recipient of help, never giving any back. For years, my parents gave me nothing, and I gave them everything.
But even everything, I’d come to understand, wasn’t enough.
I was fed up with living like a beggar, walking into a cardboard-framed death trap every Friday, and not even getting some privacy. Not only was I handing over my money to them, but now I also needed to give them affirmation that everything was dandy.