They’re not bad people.
Yes, yes, my father went to prison. They are actuallythatkind of bad people.
I meant that they’re not the worst parents in the world.
They just never saw me as anything other than a person to train to take over the family business. A person who should be grateful for the opportunities I had, even if they don’t fit the personality that I was born into.
Walking away like this—it’s not something anyone would expect of me.
“Was that ultimately your decision or theirs?” I ask. She said something about them not calling or checking on her, but she didn’t say if she tried to contact them.
Did she?
She might’ve.
I can’t remember, but I know my brain feels more awake today than it has been. I probably missed a lot of subtext the past few days.
She slides me a look like we’ve been over this, but answers anyway. “Mine.”
“But you’re still tight with Margot.”
“Yes.”
I fully recognize the discomfort in my stomach that was a result of donuts for breakfast.
It’s sitting next to the discomfort that came with thinking too much about the bras and panties Daphne threw into the cart at ValuKart not half an hour ago.
And the discomfort that’s come from remembering her ass cheeks when she climbed into the back seat two days ago and the memory of how badly I wanted to kiss her as much as I wanted to throttle her when I caught her with that phone. That wasn’t something I was able to acknowledge to even myself until this morning when I watched her eating that donut.
Probably time to call Archie and check in and get some much-needed perspective and a reminder of what I’m doing this for.
I subtly clear my throat. “Does she play go-between?”
“Like, so I stay in touch with my parents without having to talk to them? No. She tells me things about them occasionally—shedoeswork for the family business, so it’s part of her life, and I like to know what she’s doing—but as far as I’m concerned, they’re dead.”
“Harsh.”
“It’s not because they cut me off, if you’re thinking I’m some spoiled rich girl who—okay, yes, I was a spoiled rich girl who always thought I’d have my trust fund. But that didn’t make me a bad person.”
I cut another look at her.
This one’s very pointed.
She grins. “Lighten up, Tighty-Whities. I’m saving the world on a regular basis now, so I have to balance that out with annoying the shit out of some people.”
“I suddenly understand why they would’ve revoked your trust fund.”
She snorts softly, clearly not offended at all. “Yeah, they weren’t the assholes at all with how and why they did it. But you better believe if I ever have kids, I’ll pay attention to who they are and what they need and not worry about the box I want them to fit into to make sure I look good and that they do what I want them to do. And even if Aunt Margot leaves them each ten billion dollars, they’ll know how to survive in the world without it. You know?”
I steal another glance at her.
She’s frowning at the windshield, clutching her empty cup so hard it’s caving in.
Maybe I haven’t offended her, but I’ve hit a nerve.
“Why’d they cut you off?”
She looks at me, then down at her cup. “Three months before I would’ve fully come into my trust fund outright, I started a protest at my college over their policies around emotional support animals, but it turned out I’d misread the policy, and I made the college look terrible when they weren’t at fault, and they kicked me out.”
