“I had a leather jacket once,” she says around a sniffle, a half smile appearing as she stares down at a picture in her hands. “I got it at a concert. The lead singer gave it to me because he liked the way I looked in my dress, but thought I’d look better in his jacket. His words.”
I have no idea where she’s going with this.
She continues studying the picture for a moment longer before walking over to me with her head down.
“I loved that jacket. It meant something to me. It made me feel special. I was wearing it when I met your father.”
She looks up with red-rimmed eyes, sighing when she gets within reaching distance.
“I donated it to charity almost twenty years ago when I finally admitted I’d never be able to wear it again. I think that’s the day I lost my soul. Silly, isn’t it? It was just a jacket. Yet it was so much more.”
She hands me the picture, and I take it with shaky hands. My father is holding her from behind, smiling at the camera. They’re so young, probably no older than eighteen.
I’ve never once seen my mother smile the way she is in this picture. Her eyes are so alive, so free, so full of… everything. They’re not dead and cold like they are now.
And sure enough, she’s wearing a leather jacket that looks to have seen better days.
“Not everyone is Margaret and Paul, even though we all wish we could be,” she says regretfully. “Most everyone is just like Hershel and me. Like Eleanor and Edward. Like so many others, son. I wish it wasn’t true, but I don’t want you to suffer as I have, so I’m not going to fill your head with impossible hope.”
Turning around, I walk out, slamming the door behind me while crumpling the picture in my hand. There’s no way in hell I’d ever let Ruby turn into the cold woman who could pretend a child didn’t exist for eighteen years, or turn a blind eye to the way she’s been treated for even longer.
Ironically enough, my father calls just as I reach the car. I sure as fuck have plenty to say to him.
CHAPTER 37
RUBY
CORBIN: I’m sorry. I hope you forgive me one day. I think it’s best if we don’t have contact for a while.
I’ve stared at that message so much in the past week, that it sickens me to think of how weak and pathetic I am. Finally, I delete it. A sense of hollowness fills me, because now it seems real.
Over.
Finished.
Finally complete.
And I’m just as destroyed as I knew I would be, only for a much different reason than I ever thought possible.
Krysta takes the seat beside me on the couch as I watch a movie. Curling in on herself as she tucks her legs under her, she watches me. I only gauge her from the corner of my eye, hoping she doesn’t speak.
“Have you heard from him?” she asks meekly, dousing my hopes.
“Nothing other than a text message.”
I refuse to cry in front of her. She’s seen our mother fall apart countless times over men, and now the horror stories of just how far Cassie once went to get Hershel Sterling’s attention… Krysta needs to see there is more to life than chasing a man who doesn’t want her.
“What did the message say?”
She’s trying not to push, but I’m more worried about her than Corbin once again shattering my heart into a million pieces. I’m hurting so much that I’m actually numb to it all, if that makes any sense.
“It basically said we’re over. I’d rather talk about how your doctor’s appointment went today?”
I don’t even want to think about how many strings Cassie had to pull to get all this swept under a rug. At least she’s finally doing something right by letting Krysta get the help she needs instead of demanding she be put in jail for attacking her with a knife.
“It was… good. I think. She’s nice and she listens. She’s helping me, but she told me it’d be a process. Do you think I should be in a padded room? I just snapped, Ruby. I wanted to—”
I reach over and grab her hand, cutting her off. “You’ve been living with a woman who plays mind games for fun for eighteen years. You need someone to help you sort out your issues. You don’t need needles and a straightjacket. Stop. If anything, Cassie is the one who needs a padded room. She almost killed me just to get attention. A woman like that should never be able to raise a child.”
She sighs while looking over at the TV.
“What are we watching?” she asks quietly.
“The Sweetest Thing,” I grumble, finding I like the premise of women using men for sex.