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She washer.
And what the hell was wrong with her?
What other fucked-up shit was floating through her mind if she was okay with allowing something like that through?
Because her parents said she was trash?
Because she’d grown up with nothing and worked her ass off?
She’d been a jerk to Connor—no, a giant asshole—but she was going to do her best to make that right. And aside from that, she was a good doctor, a generous coworker, a damned great friend. She couldn’t cook apple pie, but she could intubate an airway like a fucking pro and set bones and stitch people up. She didn’t take from her friends.
No, she did.
But…she gave too.
In chocolate and a place for Kim and Cole to live when they’d needed it.
In taking Maggie’s back with her unplanned pregnancy.
Looking after Misty when she’d been hurt in a burglary.
Making sure to include Soph when Raven found out she was lonely.
Helping at Frankie’s shop so she could take a break.
Margarita nights and watching trash TV she couldn’t give a damn about (though she couldn’t lie that she was now weirdly invested in).
Birthday parties and hikes and building sandcastles on the beach with a famous actor and his adopted daughter, pretending to be unaffected because he was Soph’s friend then realizing he was just another guy, albeit with a large fan base—and then ignoring the questions she received from a photographer later that day because he was cool, and his stepdaughter was hilarious.
But mostly because he was Soph’s.
And that meant he was also Raven’s to watch out for.
Her parents wouldn’t have done that. They would have cashed in without a second thought, would have sold that story in an instant.
Fuck Soph.
Fuck Finn and Rylie.
And…there it was.
The argument against the thoughts in her head. The facts that told her her insecurities were bullshit.
She wasn’t her parents.
Or her past.
That truth settled over her like cool water soothing a burn.
She wasn’t them.
She was her.
And now…she just had to figure out who the fuck that was.
Eighteen
Connor
