All I can do is shake my head. She’s probably already written a mental romance novel about me and Nicholas. But it won’t hurt to let my best friend’s imagination run free. She’ll realize soon enough that it’s totally unrealistic.
My notifications show a text from Dad earlier this morning. Looks like I missed it when the horde of women came over, and a painful knot instantly forms in my belly. Instinct says I shouldn’t look at it until later, but part of me wants to just get it over with. It’s also the weekend, so he’s probably going to be too busy showing properties to his clients to devote much energy to telling me what a disappointment I am.
–Dad: By the way, I realized I totally forgot to send these to you. Happy belated birthday. Here’s to a better and improved you as you grow a year older.
I go still for a moment, then exhale softly. It’s a much kinder text than I expected, since he rarely gets in touch without something to criticize me about. I’m grateful for whatever prompted this change in him.
I click on the link to claim the e-gift he sent. A colorful certificate for six personal training sessions at Get Jacked fills the screen. My hand tightens around my phone as frustration and indignation roil through me, buzzing like angry hornets. I blink slowly, praying I didn’t see the present correctly, but no such luck.
Another text pops up, covering the certificate.
–Dad: I see you just claimed the present! Good girl! And it shouldn’t be hard—you’re there every day. Just get there an hour early or stay an hour late. I decided to be more supportive and give you the tools to help yourself.
Resentment and anger eat at me. If this is how he wants to be supportive, I don’t want it. But at the same time, a tiny kernel of guilt won’t let me tell him how I really feel. It’s the same guilt that’s been haunting me since Mom’s death.
“Are you okay?” comes Nicholas’s concerned voice.
I lift my eyes and look at Nicholas, who’s drying his hands on a dishtowel. His brow is furrowed, and his expression says he’s ready to give me whatever I need to make myself feel better, whether that’s a shoulder to cry on or someone who can rage with me.
A sense of powerlessness and embarrassment pulses in my veins. It’s too humiliating to tell Nicholas about my father. Or how messy our relationship has become.
“Yeah.” I manage a small smile, although I know it’s not convincing.
“Is it Owen?” Nicholas demands.
I wish.I’m done with that jerk, and I can block him from my life. Dad is another matter. “No.”
Nicholas’s eyes shutter, and he flattens his mouth. He’s unhappy I’m not being more forthcoming, but I just don’t want to get into it.
“I need to change before heading to Owen’s place,” I say, desperate to steer things in a different direction. “So I’ll see you in a few.”
Chapter Thirteen
Molly
I go back to my room, pull the T-shirt over my head and stare at the only outfit I have—the dress from yesterday. I should put it on before going out in public, but the ember of rage from last night rebels at the idea. I wore that dress to look pretty for Owen. And I don’t want to wear it again.
I’ve been with guys who made me angry when we broke up, but Owen is the first to make me feelunworthy, acting like somehow being with me was damaging to him. The humiliation and rage have tainted the dress to the point that it no longer gives me joy to wear it.
Screw it. I’m not bothering with the dress. I put Nicholas’s T-shirt back on. The churning in my heart eases, and I feel safer, like I have his arms around me. Sighing, I think back to his taut expression. I should apologize, but I don’t know how to do that and not share what I felt.
We’re fake-dating. And fake relationships don’t include unloading your problems on the other person.
I study my reflection in the huge mirror in the walk-in closet. The T-shirt is long enough to be a dress. I pull the silver hoop belt off my dress and put that around my waist.There. Much better.I twist my hair into a messy topknot and run some lip gloss over my mouth.
I’m ready.
When I go downstairs, Nicholas is just taking a truck fob from some dealership guy. He looks like he’d love to lick Nicholas’s shoes. “We do offer a custom paint option as well. Given the time constraint, of course, we couldn’t do much with that aspect of the vehicle, but—”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Nicholas says.
“And our detailing service is always available.”
“Good to know.”
“If you need anything else…”
“I’m good. Thanks.” Nicholas’s voice is polite. But then, he’s always polite and nice. He shuts the door before the other man can offer to sell him his liver.
