“Don’t worry about it,” I told her.
“I’m sorry.”
Her sob-ridden apology irked me. When had I given her the impression that I gave a shit about her grades or some stupid class that she didn’t even need to take? Sure, I wanted her to finish her degree, but there had never been any conditionsrelated to her education. She could spend the next ten years studying ceramics for all I cared, so long as it made her happy.
“You have nothing to apologize for, Belles.” I turned into the antique mall’s parking lot and threw the car into park. “Have you spoken with your professor about accommodations? Maybe you can redo the assignment.”
“He’s not—” The trepidation in her voice gave me pause. I had a bad feeling that I wasn’t going to like whatever she said next. “He doesn’t think I deserve accommodations.”
“Excuse me?”
She sighed. “According to him, accommodations are for students with ‘real disabilities.’”
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
My knuckles tightened around the steering wheel until they turned white. I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth, exhaling the fury clouding my vision. Someone at that university was going to wake up to one hell of a strongly worded voicemail tomorrow morning. It wouldn’t be the first time either.
Per the university’s accessibility services, Bella was supposed to receive specific accommodations for her disability. She had learned to advocate for herself from an early age, especially when our dad wouldn’t and our mom couldn’t. Unfortunately, even in the year of Beyoncé’s internet, some fuckers still didn’t understand that some disabilities—like Bella’s—were invisible.
“I’ll call them,” I pushed out through gritted teeth.
“Please don’t, Jare-bear.”
“Belles—”
“Seriously, please don’t. It’ll only make things worse. Tomorrow’s the last day to add or drop a class, so I just need to figure something out.”
“Give me two hours,” I told her. “I’m out right now, but I’ll call you back when I get home, and we’ll figure out what class you can take instead.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Stop.” I flexed my fingers and blew out another breath. “Go take a break, finish whatever Animal Planetdocumentary you’re already in the middle of, and look for my call later tonight. Okay?”
“The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City.”
“Huh?”
“That’s what I’m watching. My lab partner got me hooked and now I can’t look away. It’s more gruesome than any grizzly attack I’ve ever seen.”
I smiled to myself as she told me about her latest binge watch, and I drafted an R-rated email to her advisor. Before we said our goodbyes, I hit her with the one question that had been plaguing me since I’d picked up the phone.
“Hey, Belles. Why did you think I’d be upset that you failed a test?”
It took her a few seconds to answer—more than a few. If it wasn’t for the call time still ticking on my phone, I might have thought she hung up.
“Because of Dad.”
Those three little words gutted me raw. Suddenly, I was thirteen again, blasting Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” to drown out my mom’s cries while my dad wailed at her about spending too much ofhismoney to spoilhischildren. Our dad had demanded perfection, not excellence. Anything less from his wife, kids, or household staff would not be tolerated.
The fact that my sister saw anything of that bastard in me was like a fastball straight to the chest.
“Belles, you don’t have to think about that asshole ever again. Do you hear me? I’m not him.”
I will not be him.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
We ended the call after that, and I went inside to find those trellises. Not that I was in the mood to shop anymore—nothing soured my mood quite like being compared to my father—but I had already made the drive. Maybe some retail therapy would do me well.
