And I needed to know why.
“Are you sure?” I hated the insecurity in my voice. “I don’t mind, Brooks.”
“I told you. This was about you, okay?” He leveled his gaze with mine, and I nodded.
“Now, how are you feeling about the wedding?” He leaned back into the bench, looking completely at ease like he hadn’t just made me come.
My heart still hadn’t settled and I tried mirroring his casual stance.
Instead of feeling uncertain about not reciprocating the favor, I leaned back into my seat, body loose and satisfied, and answered him truthfully. It was easier than thinking about why he’d done it, easier than facing the unsettling idea that he wanted me to feel good for reasons that had nothing to do with sex.
“It’s been an experience,” I murmured, rolling my head to look at him. “I always thought weddings were just a gateway to shitty marriages. A money trap. And instead of a happily ever after, they just led to a lifelong string of threats and blackmail.”
Brooks’ face didn’t shift, but something flickered in his eyes—something quiet, calculating.
I let out a short, breathy laugh, more bitter than amused. “But then I watched Fiona and Gideon. And they were… happy. Like, really happy. And it was—” I hesitated, exhaling sharply. “I don’t know. Eye-opening.”
Brooks tipped his head slightly, like he was piecing together a puzzle I hadn’t realized I’d handed him.
“I take it your parents had a shit marriage.”
A half-laugh, half-whine left my throat as I ran a finger over the back of my hand, refusing to meet his gaze. “Textbooks could be written about it.”
He said nothing, just let me talk.
“Take every toxic, disastrous relationship you can think of and amplify it by ten,” I continued. “Fights, broken bottles, yelling. Marriage was a worse curse word than fuck in our house.”
Brooks let out a sharp breath. Not the pitying sigh people usually gave when they didn’t know what to say. No soft, I’m sorry, no attempt to make it neat and digestible.
Just a low, unimpressed exhale. “Assholes.”
I blinked, finally looking up. “What?”
“Your parents are assholes,” he repeated without hesitation, voice rougher than before. “No offense.”
I frowned, caught off guard. That wasn’t the reaction I expected.
“Shit like that messes kids up,” he said, shaking his head. “Sounds like you weren’t in a safe situation. And that pisses me off.”
I stared at him. Oh.
That wasn’t pity. That wasn’t someone offering me a sympathetic pat on the head and a wow, that must have been so hard look.
That was… anger. For me.
I shifted in my seat, my stomach tight, uncomfortable. “They’re assholes. Still are.” I shrugged, like it was no big deal. Like I hadn’t spent years unpicking the damage they left behind.
Once, I regretted not having the kind of family people bragged about on Facebook. But then I realized no one really had that. Even the ones that seemed perfect had their own fucked-up baggage.
So instead of wasting time wishing my childhood had been different, I focused on the one thing I could control—success. Getting out. Doing better. Being better.
Not stealing. Not landing in jail.
Not falling into the same self-destructive cycles my parents did.
Not using others for your own gain, not caring about the destruction that followed.
I almost told him that.
