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She looks confused.
“Every time you showed up at the center,” I explain. “When you spoke with Henry. When you helped my mom in her garden. When you took care of the people who mean so much to me. It was everything.”
I was so stubborn, I didn’t want to admit it.
I couldn’t see past my own pain, my own ego, myself.
I continue, “That’s when it started to happen, but I refused to see past my own anger. There were little things along the way, but then I finally realized I wasn’t angry with you. I was angry with myself.”
Her hand settles on mine, comforting me.
I squeeze and press forward. “I was angry I had put so much hope in the idea that my father would change and do better. I wanted to believe that even after what he did to Ivy. Even after all of that, I still held hope things would change. That he would change.” I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter.”
Her hand picks up mine, interlocking our fingers. “Did you think if you hurt me, you’d be hurting him?”
I nod. “But the truth is, you have nothing to do with that. Nothing to do with any of it. My father purposely did this. He purposely left the money to you, knowing I would be in charge because he wanted to torture me. He had no shame.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes—”
She gives a dry, bitter laugh. “It’s funny how he was such a different person for you than he was for me.”
“It’s sick, actually.” I stare at the ground, wondering if there’s an afterlife and if Dad’s there right now. “Sometimes I talk to him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I stare at the ground, and I talk to him. I taunt him. Because I’m alive, and he isn’t. Because he isn’t here to fight back.”
She plays with my fingers, taking her time to explore each one with her fingertips. “Does it help?”
“No.” I close my eyes, enjoying her touch. “It never does.” I repeat my words, knowing it’s better this way, knowing he’s evil and hating that part of me is still that same kid holding on to a piece of his father in hopes he’ll change. “Because I’m alive, and he isn’t. Because he isn’t here to fight back.”
Payton’s hands still, and she moves them to my face, brushing over my eyelids so gently, I barely feel them. “Did you ever read the letter he gave you . . . ?”
“No.”
“I understand.”
And I know she does.
Because Payton Hart sees me.
All of me.
Chapter
Forty-One
PAYTON
We remain in a state of limbo.
The days pass and turn into weeks. He never kisses me again.
I find that I dream about it.
Think about it.
