I refuse to believe he’s what Oliver is saying, especially in the early days. I refuse to rewrite my memories to make my childhood even sadder ...
“Maybe he was more free-spirited, but he was a good dad. He loved me, and he loved my mom.”
Oliver nods. We keep walking until we reach a snow drift that forces us to cross the street, and then we’re walking past an elementary school.
“When did your mom divorce your dad?”
The question makes hackles I didn’t realize I had go up, and I respond in kind. “Why do you keep avoiding your granddad’s calls?”
“Because he’s only calling to criticize me, and I’ve already heard it all. When did your mom divorce your dad?”
“Immediately,” I say, anger foaming in me like baking soda in vinegar. “She didn’t even give him a chance to change.”
“Didhe change?”
“Yeah, for the worse,” I say, whirling on him. “Why are you doing this?”
“I’m having a conversation.”
“No, you’re dissecting me. Why do you care if my dad was a little permissive or if my mom was unforgiving?” My voice bounces off the snow, too loud.
He watches me for a long second, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “I think you’ve made your mom the villain and your dad the saint.”
“He wasn’t a saint! He used me for money!”
“Yeah, but you think prison changed him. What if it just showed who he really was?”
“My dad isn’t the guy who attacked your brother! He didn’t ruin your family’s life. My dad is the one who was ruinedbyprison, and he’s the reason I’ve dedicated my life to—” I stop myself just in time. Oliver doesn’t get it, and he doesn’t get access to my history.
Maybe what I have with Arrow reallyisenough.
Because this—what Oliver and I are doing—is way, way too much.
“I’m going to take a walk. I’ll meet you back at the hotel,” I say, and I walk off, not waiting for Oliver’s answer.
He doesn’t call after me. No teasing nickname or muttered comeback. Just silence that makes my chest ache. The wind steals the breath from my lungs as I walk. Behind me, the world is muffled and white, and in front of me, every drift looks like a wall and every street a dead end.
And I refuse—absolutely refuse—to believe my dad built any of them.
Because if he did, nothing on earth could drag me back to Rochester.
Not even Oliver Fletcher.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FLETCH
Well, in a twist that would surprise no one, my attempts at conversation crashed and burned.
Why am I even trying? I don’t ask questions and get personal with people. I even keep things with Grace anonymous, if I can say that about someone who knows me as well as anyone.
To make matters worse, my phone is buzzing with another call from Granddad.
I stare at Poppy’s stubborn, retreating form—her shoulders hunched against the wind, her shoes leaving dark prints in the snow—and let the snow swirl around me. The bitter wind stings my cheeks. I stuff my hands into my pockets, my fingers stiff from the cold. I should go after her.
But I don’t.
Poppy’s right that I’ve been avoiding my grandfather, but the longer I wait, the more complaints he’ll have to lodge against me.
