“Talk?”
“Yes. Tell me about your day.”
I mumble, “It was a disappointing day.”
“What was disappointing about it?”
I pause. Take a deep breath. I sit with my nerves for a moment. I’m still learning how to take the reins of a conversation. Doing so with one that holds weight like this is harder, but I want to try.
I want Rosalie to know my secrets. I trust her to hold them. I’ve just become so accustomed to keeping things to myself, sometimes it feels too hard to share.
While thinking over my past and present, my girl doesn’t push. She doesn’t poke at me to get going or question why I’m taking so long to speak. She waits quietly and patiently, and it’s exactly what I need.
Confirmation that if anyone truly understands me, it’s her.
“My father was horrible to his employees today. It was disgusting. And then, he was having this weird eye showdown with his business partner. It was pathetic.”
“Eye showdown?”
“Yes. They were staring at one another like they were waiting for the other to combust. It was so strange, but it made me pity him. They used to be friends. Now they hate each other. I can’t imagine money making someone’s heart so cruel.”
Rosalie hums, and I feel the vibrations in my chest, where everything else feels tight. “It does that to a lot of people.”
“Not me,” My hopes are choked out in a whisper. “I don’t want that to ever be me.”
“It won’t, Locke. The fact that you’re so upset just fromwatchingsomeone else act that way, shows a lot about your character.”
My past actions make me scoff. “Yeah. Iwatched. I couldn’t even bring myself to say anything or stop him. I’m just as bad as he is.”
“That’s not fair.” Rosalie squeezes her arms around my waist. Her words should be comforting but I worry she sees a reality that doesn’t exist. “There’s a dynamic between you and your dad. You grew up your whole life following after him, right? He molded you to only listen to him, follow his orders, and never talk back. He literally has control over your entire life—of course you hesitate to stand up against him. How are you supposed to be your own person if he threatens your livelihood with his damn paychecks?”
I chuckle, but it’s hollow and dry.
“What?”
“I’m a horrible person.”
She leans back to stare at me and I can’t bring myself to meet her eye. “You’re not! You told me he took away your apartment because you had some fun this summer. He keeps control over you with his authority and money and it’s so fucked up-”
“I don’t need his money, Rosalie.That’sthe fucked-up part.”
There’s a smile on her face. It’s small and unassuming. I feel like an asshole.
“I agree you grew up with more money than any one person needs, but it’s still the life you’re used to. It’s horrible of him to upend it.”
The guilt is killing me. I’ve held onto this secret for my entire life. Partially because I knew it’d be dangerous to share, but also because I’m ashamed of it. There’s no greater proof of my cowardliness than this.
“I’m about to tell you something I’ve never told anyone before. Please don’t ever repeat it.”
“You know I wouldn’t.” When I bring myself to catch her eye, I nearly die inside. They hold such a softness—for me, so undeserving—and I vow to become a better person just for the right to say she’s mine. “But don’t feel like you have to tell me. If you want to keep it to yourself, you should.”
“No, no. I want to share it with someone. With you, specifically.” I grit my teeth and pray Rosie doesn’t change her mind about me after this. “I don’t need my father’s money… because I have my own. Lots of it. When I was in middle school, jumping around from hobby to hobby, our nanny had to keep contacting him. Asking to provide more funds for our changing interests. He got sick of hearing about me so often, and his solution was to give me a ‘for life fund’. A lump sum of money I can use to spend on whatever I want, however I want, until I could make my own. It was a lot of money.”
I brace myself for her to push off me. I wait for her to voice how horrible of a person I am, because if I don’t need my father’s money, then why do I let him act this way?
She doesn’t. Rosalie hums and reaches her hand up to massage my temples. “Okay. But how much is ‘a lot’?”
“About ten million.”
