Page 83 of 6 Clues Your Nemesis Loves You

“You know I hate that he wrote this book. I hate that he treated you like you didn’t matter. But I’m tired of being beaten down and blindsided by him. I think we deserve some fucking compensation. He didn’t earn that cash. We earned that money through our suffering. So yeah, I think we should all use that money. You should use it to buy your first home.”

“But I don’t want to absolve him of his guilt,” I say, voicing thoughts I hadn’t fully realized until now. “I think that’s part of what’s bugging me. Accepting it will make him think he’s forgiven.”

“Our father is a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. He knows nothing can change what he did. If anything, taking it might make him feel shittier. Every time a royalty check comes in, a check he can’t use, it’ll remind him that his actions had repercussions.”

I chew the inside of my cheek, still on the fence but slipping to the yes side every time I discuss the issue. Desmond doesn’t know about this money, but he used his WITSEC principal without batting an eye. Maggie thinks I should use the cash. E agrees, and I really want that land. I also want to slip out of Dad’s emotional hold on me. I have a feeling not using the money will torment me more than living in the home I’m dying to call mine.

“About the other text you haven’t answered,” E says, “Any thoughts on what he still wants to talk about?”

I’m about to say the book—another revelation to piss us off—but I dig my heel into the grass, making a deep divot. There’s another possibility that makes sense, a potential reveal I’ve been trying to ignore. “I could be off, but I’ve been wondering if he’s sick. It would make sense with the money. If he’s dying, he won’t need it. And the whole lame apology attempt might’ve been him setting his affairs in order.”

Or maybe he’ll tell us he’s sick, but it’ll be a lie. A way to weasel back into our lives, then bam. He’ll be miraculously recovered, his free pass to once again be our father dripping with deceit. For some reason, my hands shake. I shove them into my pockets.

E rubs the scar on his lip, looking as edgy as I feel. “It’s a possibility but could be a stretch. Whatever it is, something’s off. Mom waited a long time between finishing that book and organizing the meeting.”

“Yeah.” That’s all the wisdom I’ve got. There’s no point guessing what our father is up to. There’s only linking arms, bracing our legs, and hoping we’re strong enough to withstand his next storm. “Speaking of being sick, I should tweak your nipple again. Test if multiple times still makes you nauseous like when we were kids.”

E splays his hands on his chest. “No fucking way.”

“You’re the one who ruined my lunch. And—” I flinch away as he strikes a weird karate-type pose. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Fighting you off.”

Aside from running, E was never a natural at sports or athletics or general coordination. Apparently, he still isn’t. I match his asinine pose, trying to reach his chest, the two of us laughing as we swat at each other and pretend we can do karate.

“You guys know there’s something wrong with you, right?” Maggie calls.

I wave at her while grabbing for E. “You can have our autographs later.”

“It was WITSEC,” Delilah tells Maggie loudly, making sure we hear. “Sadie and I have discussed it at length. All that time in seclusion stunted their maturity. Sorry to say, but what you see is what you get.”

E and I slap and kick at each other some more, grinning and laughing.

Maggie shakes her head, watching us be assholes. “Can we apply to the government for new models?”

If that works for them, maybe I can apply for a new father too.

chapter twenty-eight

Blue hair and dentures abound in Windfall this afternoon. Seniors shuffle about, chatting affably with townsfolk and perusing the local shops. I stand beside my truck, taking in the jovial mood and busy sidewalk, so proud of Maggie for creating another wonderful event. She even set up tables in the middle of town square with games of chess and checkers. A small crowd is gathered there, enthralled by the players. If I didn’t have a Bower family meeting in thirty minutes, I’d be enjoying the scene, heckling the chess players and helping old ladies cross the street.

But I do have a meeting. And a headache. A knot in my neck kept me up most of the night. Or maybe that was my mind spinning to all the ways today is going to suck, which has contributed to the dark circles under my eyes.

Maggie’s outside Sugar and Sips, leaning over a table of two older gentlemen. She smiles and laughs—her real smile and laugh, loose and unabashed—and the tension in my neck eases a fraction. I didn’t plan to come here. I intended to drive to Desmond’s and get there early. Spend time with my brothers before our worlds are turned upside down again, but I somehow wound up here, searching for my favorite shade of red.

I haven’t seen Maggie since our picnic. Five days of missing her between quick texts and daily phone chats. She said she was busy with this event, getting organized and putting out last-minute fires, but I have a sinking feeling she’s replaying our last morning together. How angry she was at herself for forgetting to help her mother, wondering if dating me is bringing out her most-hated traits. She may have planned that apology picnic, but I know Maggie. Setbacks sit with her.

As far as I’m concerned, there’s no option but us staying together. I’ve never been as happy as I am when I’m with her. Ginormous Expectation Land—fairy lights twinkling above us, gorgeous hikes, karaoke ambushes, winter tent picnics, sharing our future hopes and dreams, laughing as we’re tangled in the sheets. I’m pretty sure she’s never had as much fun as she does with me. She’s told me plainly how much I make her laugh. We support each other, push each other. We listen to each other when we need to vent. Which, I guess, is why I came here instead of going to Desmond’s. I need a shot of Maggie Edelstein to soothe my nerves.

I walk across the street and wait as she finishes buttering up the gentlemen sipping their coffees and eating their baked goods.

She waves when she sees me but returns her attention to her audience. “If I ever meet April, I promise I won’t tell her about the chocolate cookie.”

“You better not,” the man grumbles. “My daughter is a lawyer.”

She pats his shoulder. “Your secret is safe with me.”

The way she’s bent over, her jacket hangs open and the neckline of her top dips. The man across from her wearing the fedora, who has an ample view of her cleavage, grins at her tits. “It’s been a splendid day. Hope you organize it again next year.”