Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Wait. What?
Before I can respond, he leans over, presses a light kiss to my mom’s cheek, and slips back into the hallway.
“Oooh!” My mom holds up a framed photo of us outside a Hilton. “I didn’t know you framed this one!”
“What did Aidan mean by skipping me to the front of the line for the Steinbeck Retreat?” I ask, cold.
“Since you’re clearly doing a hotel-motel-hotel pattern on this row...” She stands, holding the photo at arm’s length. “This one works here, right?”
“What the fuck was Aidan talking about, Mother?” I snatch the photo out of her hands. “I know you heard me.”
“I didn’t hear him say anything.” Her poker face is so bad it’s laughable. “All I heard was that he liked your wall.”
“You told me you saved up to pay for that retreat,” I say, voice low. “You said it was your money.”
“I know.”
“So…were you lying?”
She shrugs. “What does it matter? You went to a place you’ve been dreaming about. I just got a little help, that’s all.”
“You didn’t just get help—you used Aidan to rig the system. Someone else didn’t get to go because of me. Do you get that?”
“I don’t see why this matters, Emily. At this point—”
“It matters,” I cut her off. “Because it wasn’t just a lie. It was another scheme to make yourself feel like the perfect parent. Like you sacrificed something. But it was never about me. It’s never been about me. It’s always about what makes you look good.”
“Of course you belonged there.” She scoffs. “I bet your writing was some of the best in the group.”
“Did you pay for it,” I ask, “or did you use your boyfriend to pull strings and pay for it?”
“Emily...”
“Did you lie to my face, knowing the whole time?”
She offers a weak smile. “I did save up for you to go. But…I didn’t budget well. I had to spend that money on a few other things. When I brought it up with Aidan, he said he knew someone. That someone knew someone else, and...it all worked out.”
Silence.
“Can you leave now?” I ask.
“I thought we were going on the campus tour...”
“I’m sure you’re used to canceling plans with me. Let’s just add that to the list.”
“Emily, you’re making a huge deal out of—”
“Nothing?” I snap. “You think it’s nothing?”
She leans back.
“I have always told you the truth,” she says quietly. “And I’ve always looked out for us.”
“No,” I say. “You’ve only ever looked out for me when it didn’t come at a cost to you. You lie and manipulate and call it love. But it’s just control. It always has been. You’re selfish as fuck. Unfit to be a mother. And I’m done. I’m done making excuses for how fucking terrible you are. I’m done sacrificing my life for a pedestal you never deserved.”
“Emily—”
“Get the fuck out of my room.”
She doesn’t move.
“Fine.” I grab my purse and sling it over my shoulder. “When I come back, I don’t want to see you or Aidan. I’ll call ‘home’ if there’s an emergency. And I hope you’ll do the same.”
I step into the hallway and walk right past the fangirls and their questions, past the smiling photos and autographs and performance. I keep walking.
Severing off another branch of my life.
29
COLE
“You sure you want these frames in silver instead of bronze?” the contractor asks, nodding toward my collection of Hampton stills.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ve already got enough bronze and gold. I don’t want to overdo it.”
He measures the wall with a practiced eye, holding his tape measure steady against the molding before snapping a few reference photos on his phone. “I’ll have them ready by the weekend.”
I give a distracted nod, barely paying attention.
Somehow, I’ve managed to settle in Morgantown, West Virginia—a city just two hours from Pittsburgh—without ever crossing the bridge into the city that holds Emily’s university. Without ever once venturing near her.
I haven’t spoken to my father since I left.
But I still listen to his podcast.
Still listen to the lies he spins with that syrupy voice, always polished, always camera-ready. Like nothing ever cracked. Like there was never any rot beneath the veneer.
And today—against my better judgment—I accepted a package at the door.
A signed copy of his newest book: Taking Responsibility: A Successful Father’s Guide.
I peel back the dust jacket and flip to the back cover.
There it is. A fake, glowing quote from me, printed in bold italics beneath my name:
"My dad has been the main anchor of my life since the day I was born, and I wish everyone had a father like him!"
I stare at it for a long, silent beat.
Then I laugh—but nothing about it feels funny.
I toss the book across the room. It hits the far wall with a thud and lands spine-up, like it’s watching me.
I should be painting.
Should be building out the upstairs gallery or sending out invites for the small showing I promised Matt.