“Are you always so forward?”
Her hands fall to her hips, and I notice the way her nails are painted, each a different shade of pastel. “Doesn’t seem like beating around the bush works with you, so I suppose I must be blunt.”
I really fucking wish she’d stop intriguing me, but since she doesn’t seem to have any interest in leaving me alone at the moment, I’ll bite.
“Well, I suppose growing up in an abusive household gave me poor social skills. My apologies.”
I expect her to gasp and step back. Clutch her metaphorical pearls the way most pretty, wealthy daddy’s girls would. It’s a terrible reality to admit. Those who’ve never understood the harshness of the world often hate to be reminded of it. Like the presence of traumatized people is an inconvenience to their privilege.
Willow doesn’t do that, though. Maybe it’s because she could’ve guessed it. It’s not like I ended up in foster care with Carter and Penelope for no reason, and she at least knows that much about me.
Willow’s features soften, and she puts those huge, light-blue eyes directly on me. They remind me of the sky opening up after days of rain.
“I’m sorry that happened to you, Weston.” She smiles gently, but it’s not pitiful or apologetic. “But...” She flips her hair over her shoulder, spinning on her heel. “You should probably get out more. Work on those social graces. They’re shit.”
An unexpected laugh bursts out of me, and she peeks over her shoulder, a surprised smile on her face. She shakes her head, lips pursing with an exhale as she reaches the front doors.
“If you change your mind, meet me at my car after you’re done closing up. It’s the white Mercedes parked out back,” she calls as she pushes them open.
Oh, I know. All three members of the Graham family drive incredibly nice cars, and my old beater looks like utter shit in the gravel beside the driveway next to theirs.
“Daddy buy you that?”
“Yeah.” She tsks, zero shame in her voice. “As a graduation present after I was accepted into fucking Berkeley, asshole.”
She doesn’t wait for me to respond, but another laugh bubbles out of me as I watch her walk away through the windows, my chest seeming to expand with each sound that leaves my lips.
Fuck. This is not good.
CHAPTER 10
WILLOW
“Honeysuckle Florals, how can I help you?” Mom’s pristine voice singsongs as she presses the shop’s phone to her ear while simultaneously flipping through order slips for today’s pick-ups. It’s an especially busy Wednesday afternoon.
I normally answer the phone and run the register, but she beat me to it since I’m elbow deep in a bucket of hydrangeas right now, trimming stems at the counter before I place these with the rest of the buckets on the floor.
“Oh...” Her voice drops, laced with a tone I can’t quite read, but doesn’t seem right. I glance at her from the corner of my eye just as she turns to face me, throat working with a swallow. She taps the phone screen before whispering, “It’s Parker.”
Every atom in my body twists itself in knots, my insides sticking together in a nauseating funnel that seems to want to crawl right out my throat. “Why?”
I know the word came from my mouth, but it didn’t sound like me. It sounded foreign—like the haunted gasp you’d hear from a character in a horror movie just as they realize they’ve been caught by the killer.
He knows about the abortionis the first thought that rattles my mind, but I know that can’t be true. Nobody in my family would disclose that to him—would contact him at all.
Guilt sluices through me. I’ve battled with thoughts of whether to call him, to tell him about the decision I made. Part of me believes he deserves to know, another part reminds me that he took away my consent to the risk of pregnancy, so I owe him nothing.
Knowing now that he’s on the other side of the phone line, that his voice is filtering through my mom’s ear, has my skin prickling with unease. I don’t ever want to hear that voice again. I don’t think I could bear it.
Mom chews on her cheek, watching me with wide, somber eyes. “I’m going to tell him you’re not here, okay? It’ll be all right, baby.” Her eyes drift toward the front of the flower shop as the chime on the door rings. Nodding behind me, she plasters a soft smile on her mouth that I know isn’t meant for me before going back to the phone.
I turn around to find Weston striding up to the counter, eyeing me curiously.
“Hi,” I say, voice cracking, all that anxiety I attempted to fight back funneling up my throat anyway.
“Um... I need a bouquet.” Weston rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, like purchasing flowers from me is the most painful thing he’s ever endured.
Apparently, it’s been decided we can’t stand each other, as he’s been avoiding me like the plague since Friday.
