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“I can see that. And God help my balls, but it’s more than obvious to me that you’re not okay. Since I know you like talking about your problems, start talking.”
I bite down on all the things I want to say about what he just said. “You really have a way with words, and I’ll say it again, it’s no wonder you’ve never married.”
“Adeline,” he growls, and I know from the way he’s watching me like he’s thinking about physically extricating the information from me that he doesn’t intend on letting this go.
I glare at him. “It’s my sister.”
He lifts his brows, waiting for more, nowhere near satisfied with those three words.
This man.
“She wants money. She always wants money. I’m not feeling like giving her any.” I pause. “Is that enough for you?”
He ignores my attitude. “You pay all her bills?”
“I give her money, yes. And yes, it’s enough to pay all her bills.”
“And she comes looking for more?”
“Yes.”
“How often?”
I hate discussing my family problems. With anyone. But definitely with Jameson. “You don’t need to concern yourself with my family problems, Jameson.”
He goes back to watching me like he’s contemplating physical extraction. “I have concerned myself withyou. And along with you, comes your family. How often does she ask for more?”
“Oh my God, you are insufferable.” I hate that his questions are making me feel powerless, inadequate, incapable. Less than. I want to get out of this car and away from him and everything he’s forcing me to confront. “Every month, okay? Sometimes every damn week.”
My words rush out of me, falling into all the gaps between us.
The air in my lungs does too.
It’s been trapped for so long that I didn’t notice it. It just felt normal. Like air should overfill your lungs to the point where it’s hard to bring more in.
And then, goddamn him, tears blur my vision.
I look away.
Out the window.
And try to suck some of that air back in.
I just want to go back to my normal.
I know how to exist in my normal.
I don’t know how to be without all that air and all those words locked up tightly inside me.
I’ve never told anyone how often Sabrina uses me or how much she demands. Not even Natalie. I simply write checks, hand over cash, and push my feelings aside.
It’s my dirty shame.
I can’t get anyone to love me.
Not my mother.
Not my father.
