Jesus.
I clear my throat, searching for a smartass reply.But I’ve got nothing.
The years have been kind to him.Too kind.
Motherfucker.
“Thanks,” is all I manage to get out before I sidestep him and walk to the counter on wooden legs.
He files in right behind me.
“Doing a little art project?”he asks.
I want to ignore him, but I was raised to have good manners, and when someone asks me something, I answer.
It’s just how I’m wired.
“It’s for Mom.”
He smiles then, and fuck, that strikes a chord within me.I shut it down fast.
Emotions are not wanted here.Not now.Not in front ofhim.
“Ah, I get it.How is your mother, Ad?I’d love to see her and your dad?—”
The hurt that slams into me is quick and hard.I lift my gaze to his.
“Dad passed away two years ago,” I whisper.
“Fuck.I’m sorry, Ad.I didn’t know?—”
“Why would you?”
“Ad, come on, I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say and shake my head, unprepared for the wave of hurt that rocks me to my core.
Tears prick my eyes, and it’s hard, but I force myself not to cry.I mean, I thought I was used to Dad being gone, but I guess I was wrong.
I tap my phone to the screen to pay for the spray paint, and I don’t bother turning around when I say for what I hope is going to be the last time, “Goodbye, Nathan.”
The automatic doors whoosh open, and cold January air slaps me in the face—thank God.
I need the shock of it.I need the sting.Anything to drown out the hurricane inside me.
I keep walking.Fast.Determined.Eyes on my car like it’s the finish line of some miserable emotional marathon.
My keys jingle in my shaking hand.
I hear him behind me before I see him.
“Adrianna—wait.”
No.
No, no, no.
I donotwant this conversation.I do not want this man unearthing the past I buried with a shovel and two decades of stubbornness.
