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Don’t wait for me.
“Well, my mother does need the money direly. And Cece would like to divorce her husband and start fresh, I suspect. Plus, I want the estate to stay in my immediate family.”
“Then what’s there to think about?” Cillian plucked a brandy bottle from an impressive row and poured himself two fingers. “Marry the woman. Make an escape plan afterward.”
“It’s complicated,” I growled, thinking about the pre-written prenup.
“Dumb it down for us, Einstein,” Cillian coaxed.
“I want the inheritance, not the woman.” Actually, I wanted neither, but Mum and Cecilia needed to be provided for.
“As established, you don’t have to spoon with her for the rest of your fucking life.” Sam knocked down his drink and stood up, done with the conversation. “Just put a ring on her damn finger. Bonus points if you can knock her up so you’ll have someone to leave the inheritance to.”
“I do have someone to leave it to. My child with Emmabelle.”
Cillian threw a pitying look behind his shoulder from across the room. “Leaving a title to a bastard? Really?”
I shot up to my feet, my legs carrying me toward him before I even knew what was happening. I grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the liquor cabinet, snarling in his face.
“Call my unborn child a bastard one more time and I’ll make certain you will need all your fucking teeth replaced.”
Brennan jumped up. He put his body between us, pushing us away to the opposite corners of the room.
“Easy there. Cillian has a point. Maybe the reason why you’re so adamant not to marry Laura is because you have a boner for your baby momma.”
“Louisa,” I gritted.
“No, Belle. Even I know that. Get some gingko, man.” Sam shook his head.
“The other woman’s name is Louisa.”
Cillian sipped his whiskey, looking casual, while Sam took a step back, confident we wouldn’t try to kill each other again.
Both of them were staring at me.
“What?” I asked, my eyes narrowing to slits. “What the fuck are you looking at?”
Cillian smirked. “This is how it starts.”
“How what starts?”
He and Sam exchanged amused looks.
“He’s already gone,” Sam observed.
“Never stood a chance,” Cillian said, inclining his head.
“Poor Livia,” Sam chuckled.
This time, I didn’t correct them.
Fourteen Years Old.
“Scumbag,” Dad spits on the floor.
Oh boy. Mom’s gonna smack him in the head for that.
He’s lying on his incliner, catatonic, in front of the TV after a long workday.
Mom is somewhere in the house, having a breakdown. Not a huge one, just a mini meltdown. She’s been a mess for … how long now? Since Auntie Tilda died, over a year ago. Auntie Tilda raised her. They had a ten-year gap between them. Auntie helped raise us too, so of course I’m bummed. But Mom … sometimes it’s like she’s on another planet.
“Daddy, language.” Persephone gasps from her spot on the carpet, working on her two-thousand-piece puzzle, her tight braid swung over one of her shoulders. She looks so wholesome. I wish I could be her.
“Sorry, sweetheart. I get riled up when I see stuff like this.”
I look up from my homework, which I’m doing on the sofa. It’s the local news channel, and they’re talking about a geography teacher who was caught having an affair with a junior at the local high school he worked for. They show his mugshot. He can’t be under fifty-five.
“People like him should rot in hell.” Dad stands up, starts stomping around the living room.
I tell myself that it’s no big deal.
That it has nothing to do with me and Coach Locken.
Besides, what the hell am I even thinking? Coach and I haven’t kissed, hugged, or touched in any way that’s inappropriate. He helps me with my bad knee and short thigh muscles. It’s not his fault that I’m broken.
And let’s get real here, it’s not like Dad’s mood is all because of this news article. He’s been worried sick about Mom, trying to convince her to go to therapy. But Mom says everyone is fed, clean, and that the house is in top condition. Which is all true. She’s a great mom, even when she is sad.
“I hope you girls know you should tell Daddy if something like that ever happens.” Dad points at the TV.
“Yes, Daddy,” Persy and I say in unison.
Later that evening, I get a text message from Coach Locken. It’s not out of the ordinary to get texts from him. Sometimes practice needs to be rescheduled or moved around because of the weather.
Only for the first time, the text is not dropped in the cross-country group with all the other runners. It is sent directly to me.
Coach Locken: morning practice time change. Meet at the entrance to Castle Rock Reservation at seven. Don’t be late.
Weeks chased one another like pages in a good book.
The only outward signs I was pregnant were the violent bouts of morning sickness I woke up to each day, paired with weekly visits to Doctor Bjorn, in which we watched Baby Whitehall (or Mr. Bean, as Devon liked to call her) growing nicely in my weirdly-shaped, polycystic womb, giving zero damns about the hostile environment she was in.
