AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Trina huffs, rolling her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips.
“I’ll tell you everything that happened with Belinda. Dinner tomorrow?” I ask. “You can ask me anything you want. I’m an open book.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize they’re the honest truth. I want Trina to know how I grew up with a single father. I want her to know that I suffered when my mother left, that I never trusted anyone besides my father and my brother to stay by my side. I want to tell her that for the first time in my life, it feels like that might change.
Trina bites her lip, hesitates, but finally nods. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
I can’t resist the temptation of one last kiss. It’s quick, but deep, and I’m hoping it’ll hold me over until tomorrow evening. “Pick you up at seven.”
“Can you make it seven-thirty so I can get the baths and bedtime routine done?”
“Seven-thirty.” Smiling, relieved, I watch her walk back inside to be swarmed by her friends and family, then I get back in my truck and let out a long breath.
If I’m going to tell Trina about Belinda, I’m going to have to tell her about my mother. I’m going to have to face a lot of truths from my past that I’ve never shared with another woman—but as I drive back home to get ready for the first day of school tomorrow, I know it’ll be worth it. Because I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that Katrina Viceroy is worth being vulnerable for.
CHAPTER 21
Trina
The girls and my mom accept a brief, vague explanation of what happened outside only because Katie and Toby are still in the café. I manage to dodge the hardest questions, grab my kids, and head home. Then there’s lunch to make, backpacks to prep for tomorrow, school supplies to label with the kids’ names, and all the thousand and one last-minute tasks that need to be done on the Sunday before the start of the school year.
Finally, when the kids are in bed and my mother’s reading in her bedroom, I make my way to the kitchen, open the refrigerator, and grab a bottle of white wine that has at least a glass and a half left in it. I pour myself a glass that feels completely indulgent after a day like the one I just had, and I lean against the kitchen counter as I take a sip.
I had sex with Mac Blair.
Holy smokes. My wine tastes dry and a little sour—I probably should have opened a fresh bottle—but it relaxes my shoulders as I replay all the events from last night and this morning in my mind. Mac is dynamite in bed. Explosive. Amazing.
The most incredible thing is I don’t feel guilty. In all the years I was married to Kevin, I always felt vaguely bad about doing things for myself, things I enjoyed. It’s like my whole existence was structured around making his life easier. I took care of the kids all the time and made sure he had time to paint. I dressed up and stood by his side at events, ever the polite wife. I took care of the house and I worked part-time, and it always felt like I was doing those things for him.
Last night and this morning, I did things for me, and it feels like a revelation.
Then I think about the woman outside the café. Her words—she’s the next one. How Mac stiffened beside me when she made that comment about flirting with moms, then the sincerity written across his face when he promised to tell me everything I needed to know tomorrow night, when we had time and space to talk about it.
Maybe I’ll tell him about my past. I can tell him about growing up with my mother, about my father dying when I was in my twenties, about my marriage to Kevin and all the layers of suffering that came along with being married to a selfish man like him.
I’ll tell him that there’s this kernel inside me, this tiny seed that is starting to bud into something bigger. It’s like I’m finally scratching the surface of who I am, finding out that yes, I can do this on my own. And hell, maybe I can start a stylist business! Who says I need to be an accessory on an unappreciative man’s arm? Why I can’t I do something for myself, for my kids?
Tomorrow, things between Mac and me will change, and I’m ready for it.
Quiet footsteps bring my attention to the stairway, where I see Katie’s pajama-clad body descending. She pokes her head around the bannister and when she sees me, she freezes. Then, sliding into full view, my daughter bites her lip.
“You okay, Katie?” I put my glass of wine down on the counter and head for the hallway. Katie meets me halfway, wrapping her arms around my body. She buries her head against my stomach, hiding her face from me. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“I’m scared,” is her quiet reply.
Gently guiding her to the sofa, I sit down and nestle her into my side. “What are you scared of? Did your nightlight go out?”
She shakes her head, her body so small against mine. Katie has a fierce, independent personality, and I sometimes forget just how young she is. She’s been running around since she was a toddler, always with mischief written all over her face.
And then there are times like now, when she snuggles up against me and it makes my heart squeeze into a tight ball.
“Tell me,” I say, my hand making slow strokes through her hair.
“School,” she finally says.
“You’re nervous about going to school?”
Katie nods without saying anything.
“But you loved school last year, Katie. This year won’t be any different.”
