Sean squeezed my hand like he was trying to keep something from tearing me away.
And that’s when I heard myself tell him about her wanting me to come live with her.
About her saying my dad wasn’t my dad.
We were going for our second record of silence when the doorbell rang.
There was a moment of unspoken communication between us where we both had the same fear—my mom—and reacted in wildly different ways. I shot to my feet. Sean rose up almost in slow motion and backed up at the same speed.
“Leave it,” he said.
But I was already peering through the peephole.
Mom wasn’t standing on my porch.
Daniel was.
CHAPTER 29
Ithink I hated everyone on the planet as I curled my fingers around the doorknob. I hated the obvious people for the obvious reasons and the not-obvious people for reasons that slapped around inside of me.
I hated Mom for being my mom and for never being a wife to Dad. I hated Dad for marrying her. For every year of our lives that he wasted on her. For making me doubt the only thing that mattered. I’d hate him forever if it was true.
I was so tired of hating and loving and still hating Sean. I hated that he made it hard to hate him when I should. I hated the most that he brought me soup. That he didn’t want Cami. That he’d been looking at me in the wrong-stupid-too-late way.
I even hated Claire. My outsides hurt almost as much as my insides because of her.
I hated Mrs. Addison for not being mine.
I hated Daniel’s mom for being worse than mine.
I hated Daniel for not kissing me when he should have and for kissing me when he shouldn’t have and leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. Literally.
I half opened the door, hating both of us for making me think that fixing him would fix me.
Glancing behind me, I gave Sean the slightest shake of my head—it wasn’t my mom on the porch—and watched the tight coil of his muscles release. He ran both hands through his hair and walked off into the kitchen.
One down.
“Your dad?” Daniel asked.
“Sean.”
Daniel’s face contorted into something painful as he looked at me, all of me, but the expression flickered like a lightbulb burning out. “Look at you.”
I could only imagine what he saw. Red, puffy skin. Even redder, puffier eyes. It was as obvious that I’d been crying as it was that he was hungover.
“Yeah, well, it’s been a sucky weekend.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He was backing up as he spoke, turning away as the litany continued.
My apology. There it was. Sort of. The hateful part of me wanted to let him go, wanted to let him head home to drown in his own self-loathing—his expression promised as much. But Daniel hadn’t given me nearly enough fuel to feed the hatred Mom had ignited and so many others had stoked. Because I didn’t really hate him. And for that reason and a lot of others, I couldn’t be responsible for hurting him, even after he’d hurt me.
“Daniel, wait.” I stepped closer, pulling the door with me so I was half-outside, and lowered my voice. “Stop, okay? This.” I looked down as I waved a hand toward my tearstained cheeks. “It’s not about last night. It’s not about you.” And saying it, I realized that I’d barely thought about him all day.
“Why are you so good to me?” His chin locked tight. “Why? You shouldn’t be. I never gave you a reason, not from that very first night. Never.”
“Because you and I know it’s not about reasons.” Why did saying that make me want to cry again?
