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“I do.” I smile.
“What about you?”
My front teeth immediately go to chew on my lip, but I stop myself before she sees the nervous tic.
“If you’re happy, I’m happy.”
“How did I ever get so lucky at having such a sweet daughter like you?” my mother coos, cupping my cheeks in her hands and placing a tender kiss on my forehead.
I just smile, because telling her the truth would break her heart.
I’m not sweet.
Sometimes, I don’t think I’m even nice.
But I work damn hard at pretending that I am.
Fake it until you make it, I guess.
If my mother knew how angry I was all the time, it would scare her. And thanks to me, she’s had a rough life as it is. She doesn’t need me to pile my baggage to her already heavy plate of misfortunes. So I smile and I nod, hoping she doesn’t see how broken and flawed I truly am on the inside.
It’s a twenty-four-seven job.
One that will become more difficult to pull off if we move to Thatcher’s Bay.
As the saying goes, you can fool some people some of the time, but you can’t fool them all, all of the time.
Maybe it won’t be that bad.
Maybe this Noah guy will put up enough of a fight that will make my mom reconsider moving us altogether.
A girl can only hope.
Chapter 3
Skylar
Sixteen years old
The wind whips at my hair, throwing it across my face like it’s trying to punish me for the negative thoughts battering at my skull. Daisy’s beside me, typing away on her phone like this is just another day, another normal moment, and not the probable start of a whole new life.
My mother is…a mess. Vibrating between huge, awkward smiles and nervous looks, she spends her time staring wistfully between the strip of land in the distance and us. I don’t know what she’s so nervous about. I love my mother. But she’s already started down this path. She’s already taken our choice away from us. Even if I go to this lunch and hate Curt, even if I scream and curse and tell her she’s ruining my life, it won’t make a difference. She’s already made up her mind, and nothing I say will change that.
It’s helpful knowing that going into this so I can manage my expectations accordingly.
Fuck. I sound like I’m an eighty year old woman—even in my own head.
Daisy snorts and then throws her head back, practically howling. People glance over at us, soft smiles on their faces. It’s the reaction she always gets.
The boat rocks as we hit a wave and my stomach twists and rolls, a wave of nausea hitting me hard.
Have I mentioned that I hate boats?
I’ll add that into the win column for how my mother’s relationship, with a fisherman no less, is going to be perfect for me.
It’s also one more thing that proves just how unseen I really am.
Right now she’s not worrying about my fear of the sea and drowning. All she’s worried about is whether we’ll make this easy or not for her.
