Beg, Borrow, or Steal (When in Rome, #3)(65)
But then he gives me a quiet smile and presses his phone to his chest to muffle his words as he says, “Good night, Goldie.”
FROM: Jack Bennett <[email protected]> TO: Emily Walker <[email protected]> DATE: Tue, Dec 9 11:00 PM (10 years ago) SUBJECT: Library
Did you make it home? (Asking because if not, I won’t have to work so hard to beat your grade in history.) FROM: Emily Walker <[email protected]> TO: Jack Bennett <[email protected]> DATE: Tue, Dec 9 11:010 PM (10 years ago) SUBJECT: Library
I’m home. (Study up.)
Chapter Twenty
Jack
“So anyway . . . he did come back around two A.M., but I’m worried about him. He’s doing this more and more,” my mom says, lifting her coffee to her mouth for another drink.
We’re sitting at the Hot Bean (which is either the very worst or very best coffee shop name—I haven’t decided yet) because after the night she had, I thought she might need some decompressing. I invited her to Rome for the first time to see my house (from the outside because Darrell and his guys are inside working today) and tour the town. Also because I’m worried about her. I’m always worried about her actually, but especially after she calls me in tears like she did last night.
There are dark smudges under her eyes from sitting up most of the night waiting on my asshole father to come back home. Apparently when he hadn’t surfaced from his office in a while, and she wanted to make sure he was okay, she went into his office even though his door was closed (a cardinal sin to Fredrick). He blew up at her, saying she’d interrupted his flow and he wouldn’t be able to get it back now because of her. She apologized (which I hate) and said she’d leave him alone from then on, but he’s a petulant child and said it was too late, the muse was gone. He got up, grabbed his keys, and went right to his car. Wouldn’t tell her where he was going either. Classic Fredrick.
That was when she called me. Worried that he hadn’t come home yet and afraid he’d gone to a bar. After a painful moment having to watch Emily go into her house, I spent a while talking my mom down. She texted me around two A.M. that my dad had come home safely—and thankfully, not drunk.
I study the dark circles under her eyes now, then have to avert my gaze to the coffee shop windows when a rage builds inside me. “You don’t deserve to be treated like that by him. Or anyone. You were just checking on him and he was a jerk to you. That’s not okay.”
My mom shrugs off my comment like she always does. She’s endured Fredrick’s gaslighting for so long now that she can never see when he’s manipulating her. “I shouldn’t have interrupted him, though. I know better than that—but he had missed lunch and dinner. And his stress has been so high with this book that I honestly worried something had happened to him in there.”
“Mom, those are good reasons to interrupt someone. Dad is just an entitled asshole who thinks he’s the god of creative writing and should be treated like it. It’s bullshit. There’s a difference between feeling grumpy from deadline stress and what he does. The way Dad acts is not normal or healthy.”
I’ve pushed too hard. I can see her shutting down. It’s what always happens anytime I try to bring up the truth about him. I know what she’s feeling now because I’ve felt it too: like you’re doing something wrong by calling out his toxic tendencies. Like you’re betraying him in some way even though he was the one who hurt you. I’m by no means fully healed of the wounds my dad left—I likely will be trying to cauterize them for the rest of my life—but I have spent enough time now recognizing where the wounds come from that I can talk myself through the logical truth of it all.
But my mom—I worry she’ll never get away from him long enough to find healing at all.
“Mom,” I begin gently, and adjust my glasses. “Have you ever thought of leaving him? I remember you saying once you didn’t sign a prenup—so I know you’d get money in the settlement. Probably a lot of money to keep you comfortable. You don’t have to keep enduring—”
“He has his issues”—she cuts me off—“but he’s a good man too. And he’s always taken care of me. I just need to get better at waiting until he’s out of these stressful deadlines to approach him. I’m sorry I panicked and called you last night. I hope I didn’t ruin your evening.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her that she absolutely ruined my evening. Ruined what was sure to be the best night of my life, in fact. What happened with Emily in that closet—it felt like it was always meant to happen somehow. Like the pieces of my life slotted into place the moment my mouth touched hers. All I wanted was more. Still want more.
I can’t get her off my mind. I want to spend every second of the day with her. I want to make up for every day of every year I spent fighting with her instead of loving her. Lately, it’s been seeming like she feels the same way too. I can feel it in her touch. I can see it in her smile. Hear it in the way she says my name.
Which means it’s time to tell her about my writing career. And I’m dreading it. Everything seems so hopeful between us right now, and I don’t want to mess it up. But keeping it from her and pursuing a relationship only to tell her the truth later down the line—that would mess it up. I’m not willing to hurt her like that. And this unfortunately means that until I can find a time to tell her, I can’t kiss her again.