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I seriously didn’t know if it felt good. I’ve come by myself, many times, and decided at some point when he had his fingers lodged inside me in what seemed like a never-ending quest to find that elusive spot, that I liked it better when I was alone. Alone in my own bed, alone with my fantasies, and free from being watched. His eyes on me and his expectations were too much. I had to pretend, to make sounds and move my body the way he wanted me to, just so he’d stop. And once he believed I was satisfied, he ripped open another condom and then entered me in a rush. Pump, pump, pump, pumpand...victory. Sweat dripped off his brow and onto me before he collapsed beside me.
Parker lifts my hand, turns it over and lays a gentle kiss on the inside of my wrist. It seems to come out of nowhere when he asks, “Why would you even consider confronting your parents?”
It takes me a moment to comprehend that he’s back to this morning’s conversation. “Why? I just...I have to know.”
“Do you? I mean, it seems to me like you already know everything there is to know. You were given up for adoption by the woman in that picture. You were adopted by your parents, two wonderful people. And here you are, eighteen years later, living a great life.” He turns to me smiling. “Adoption wise, you kind of hit the lottery, wouldn’t you say?”
And just like that, Parker kills the warm and fuzzy vibe. Whereas I was starting to feel understood—seenby Parker for the first time ever—I’m back to questioning what it is that drew him to me in the first place and what keeps us together now.
I slip my hand out of his grip. “What is that supposed to mean?”
He shakes his head sporting a look that’s gentle, as if he’s breaking something down for a child. “It’s your life, so you’re having a hard time being objective. I’m trying to be objective for you. What kind of person would give their newborn away?” Just hearing the word newborn wounds me but he doesn’t notice. He keeps going, the question obviously rhetorical. “A single woman, a poor woman, a woman without family to step in and help her out. And that’s best-case scenario. I’ll bet most of them are inreallybad situations.” He’s almost flip when he adds, “There’s a good chance that girl didn’t even know who the father was. There could have been drugs involved, abuse, mental illness...You name it.”
I can’t speak past the lump in my throat. Parker has just intimated that my birth mother could be crazy, an addict, without morals, or all of the above. And I feel incensed on behalf of the woman, who probablyisawful because let’s face it, she did hand me over to strangers.
Parker takes my silence as a cue that he’s getting somewhere, so he piles on more. “The important thing to focus on is that you were plucked out of that life. You live,” he gestures to my front door, “on an estate. Your father runs one of the most successful investment funds in the country. Your mother and father can andwouldprovide you anything under the sun. You, Sarah Hamilton, are set for life. I’m just asking why you’d rock the boat?”
It takes me a moment to sort it all out before asking, “If it was you, wouldn’t you want to know where you came from?”
“No,” he answers decisively. “I’d be content and I’d be grateful.”
I’m weary getting out of his car, and thankful my parents aren’t around when I come inside. I stayed out all night without calling, but they wouldn’t be worried because I was with Parker.
The water runs hotter than I normally like it in the shower, and I stand under the spray until my skin is red. I want to wash every speck of him off me. Every sloppy kiss, every touch, every tactless word.
“I love it, don’t you?”
“The color is great. I never would have thought this would look good on me.”
My dress just got dropped off from the tailor. My stuff always needs to be altered to accommodate my chest and my hips. Tatiana, Clara, Penny, and even my own mother—everything is made to fit their bodies effortlessly. Slip in, pull up the zipper and you’re done. Not me.
“Just two more days. Did you decide how you want to wear your hair?”
“Down?”
My mother comes to stand behind me so we’re both looking in the mirror. She pulls my hair up and then lays it back down. “Either way would look great with this neckline.” She smooths her hands down my sides and rests them at my waist. “So, are you excited?”
If I was being honest, I’d answer, “Mheh,” but that would disappoint her. “I mean, it’s not a formal or anything, but I’m sure we’ll have a good time.”
We don’t do prom at my school. That’s for less sophisticated folks. They actually put an end to prom a decade ago. There was an incident involving a couple of boys from other schools, boys who were invited as dates. From what I’ve heard there was a massive brawl—over who or what I don’t know—and it was decided that moving forward there would be no outsiders allowed. The administration sells it as a semi-formal group activity. It’s not even called a dance. I don’t think anyone would even bother with it if not for our parents insisting. It’s just another night hanging out with your friends, except dressed up and unable to consume booze. In short, it pales in comparison to the house parties my friends host any given day of the week.
But my mother took me dress shopping, she’s planned a cocktail hour at our house for my friends and some of the parents, and she’s arranged for a driver to take us there and then deposit me and my friends wherever the after-hours scene takes us.
So I’m stuck, but not for long.
I keep telling myself that I just have to get through this week.
Then I’m going to end this.
Chapter Thirteen
LIAM
“I’ll wait for you guys out here.”
“C’mon, you won’t come inside?”
I’m settled in the back seat of Nicky’s car, pretending to read text messages on my phone. “Nope.”
