She flicks her hair over her shoulder and walks away, leaving Thomas’s nostrils flaring with anger.
“She isn’t worth it,” I tell him, almost defeated by the truth. But she isn’t. Her nasty words aren’t unjustified, even if they’re not entirely accurate. She’ll never know that I tried keeping my past on lockdown solely so it didn’t afford me a single thing. I don’t want pity or sympathy to make people give me things that I don’t earn. I have every intention of working for it. And if I make mistakes, to pay for them.
“Now isn’t a good time,” I say, not looking at either of the men who linger mere feet away.
“Now is the perfect time,” Thomas says. “I think we need to talk.”
Slowly, I turn my chair toward him. “About what? About yourwife? About herfiancée? About the media somehow knowing every little thing there is to know about me and publishing things I’d never wish on my worst enemies?”
My words catch, and I have to stop talking for a moment to gather myself. I count to three and try to ease my shoulders from the stiff, guarded squares they are. “There have been so many secrets, Thomas. I’ve always known you were holding back, and I didn’t press. Because then I’d have to offer my own demons in trade, and I wasn’t ready. Not fully. I offered you parts of methat—” Once again, my words get crammed in my throat, and I hate it. I hate how shaky they are and how weak I sound. “That I haven’t given to anybody before. And now the world is divulging details about me for everybody to pick apart.”
Thomas walks over and kneels in front of me. “I never wanted that. I’ve only ever wanted you to tellmethose secrets, and now you know the biggest one of all.”
Emaly.
“I want to tell you everything,” he says. “I’d prefer to do it elsewhere, if that’s all right with you. Ashton is going to speak to Janel about the next steps, but there’s a lot that’s going to happen now that Emaly went to the press. You can ask me whatever you want, and I’ll be honest.”
I stare at him for a very long time. So long that Ashton clears his throat and excuses himself, probably to go to Janel’s office.
Then I sit back in my chair, cock my head, and ask the one thing that comes to mind. “Was it all a lie?”
There are so many ways he can answer.
So many lies he can spew.
But his eyes soften, and vulnerability takes over his face as his lips twitch upward into a sad smile. “No,” he says quietly. “Not all of it.”
He could elaborate on which parts, but he doesn’t need to. His face says it all. His need for me to hear him out. The way he stayed with me last night without pressing for a conversation.
Thomas Moskins doesn’t just love his wife.
He loves me too.
I stand up, gather my bag and jacket, then deposit my phone into my pocket without checking it as it rings. At this point, I don’t care who’s on the other end, because the person I need to speak to most is right in front of me.
“Then let’s go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Moskins
It’s hard tofigure out where to begin when Winter settles onto the couch with Oreo draped across her lap. She focuses solely on her, cuddling into the cushions as the feline nuzzles her for more affection.
“I was put into foster care for the first time when I was six,” I begin, only then earning her attention. Her eyes meet mine, but there’s no sympathy there. Only a desire to listen. “I’ve told you that my parents were—are—shitty people. They’re drug addicts and alcoholics who should never have had a child. In their minds, I ruined their lives by existing.”
Winter stares at me with gaping, somber eyes, but remains silent.
I shift in the armchair I occupy across from her, because being close to Winter isn’t a good idea. I would want to touch her. Comfort her. There needs to be space if I’m going to tell her the sordid tale of my past. “My father used to beat me whenever he’d be coming down from a high or in between twelve packs, so the school called CPS when the bruises became harder to hide. I was put in a home for four months before my parents were awarded custody again. They behaved well enough not to warrant any suspicion from the system, so eventually, the social worker wrote the case off and closed it.”
But that was far from the end of it.
I learned over the next year to lay low. To not make much noise. To stay out of sight whenever I could. Because if I didn’t,chances were I’d be on my father’s bad side again. And my mother would be too far gone to step in or do anything about it. She may not have done most of the beatings, but she certainly didn’t care enough to intervene when they happened.
“The second time I was taken away was two and a half years later,” I explain, looking down at a random spot on the rug beneath the coffee table. “I spent my ninth birthday locked in my bedroom alone. And maybe I should have been sad about that, but I knew it was a gift on its own. I may not have gotten cake or presents like most nine-year-old kids on their birthdays, but I didn’t have to endure the shit my parents put me through. I was given some semblance of peace, and I found myself enjoying the time alone. It gave me time to think.”
Winter lets out a tiny breath. “What could a nine-year-old possibly have to think about?”
I lift a shoulder. “The future,” I answer easily. “I thought about what I was going to do when I was old enough to control my life. I dreamed of better days and better things when I didn’t have to answer to anybody. I thought about what freedom would taste like, and how I wouldn’t take advantage of it once I got it.”
