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“Fuck you,” I grumbled. “I still don’t fucking like you.”
“And I still think you’re a dick,” Cade shot back. “Seems like we have a few fucking things we agree on.”
“Your stats have sucked this year,” I retorted. Yeah, I was being childish.
“Your singing voice is barely passable.”
“At least I can fucking sing,” I scoffed. “You can’t.”
“But I’ve partied with Carrie Underwood,” he said.
“Fuck you.”
“You couldn’t handle me,” Cade replied with a grin. I fucking laughed, unable to help myself.
We fell into a weird kind of silence—not comfortable but not uncomfortable either. I stared up at the sky, counting stars as I waited for them to give me some kind of answer when deep down, I already knew the answer to every question.
I went back to Brady’s house and burned my divorce papers. Stupid? Maybe. A little masochistic? Definitely. But I’d carve out my damn heart if she asked me. No matter what front I put up around her, that much I knew.
I didn’t have a clue if Genevieve and I could make this work—or if there was anything left to fix—but fuck it. Fuck all of it.
I loved that woman more than I loved anything in the world. I wasn’t ready to give up on that. I never would be. It was Genevieve or nothing.
I’d fight for her.
And lucky for me, I liked to fight.
Chapter 33
Genevieve
Iran my hands over my skirt, smoothing out another stupid wrinkle. It was mostly wrinkle-free. All but one. And that one stupid wrinkle would matter to him. Phillip Goodwin—my father—wasn’t a perfectionist. Not really. He was, however, demanding in all things related to his family. We were an extension of his image.
Image and perception were very important things. Which honestly confused me, considering he was a man of God, a pastor. I thought other things should’ve been more important, but I knew better than to voice that opinion.
My parents’ house was a modest little house on the corner of one of the busier sections in Cedar Harbor. Nice, small homes with nicer cars and friendly neighbors. Their house always had visitors. Why wouldn’t they? The town’s pastor living on the corner where everyone could come and go as they pleased was quite the commodity.
Not that I’d thought so growing up.
Sighing, I stood taller like he liked and straightened my shoulders as I was supposed to before letting myself inside. My dad sat in his reading chair with a newspaper in hand and the Bible open on his lap. He was dressed up—he was always dressed up—in perfectly pressed dark slacks and a crisp blue shirt. Mom got up early every day to make sure his clothes were ready. Looking well-put-together was important when letting people into your life. His dark gaze drifted over the edge of his glasses when I closed the front door. From the way his brows furrowed, I knew he was annoyed. And I knew why.
“There’s a wrinkle in your skirt,” my dad snapped before I could brace myself for it.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I whispered and flattened my palm over that one stupid wrinkle. I’d tried to get rid of the dang thing. I really had.
“When are you going to fix your hair?” he continued as he gestured to my hair. Once he got started, there was no stopping him. I wrung my fingers together and waited. Waiting it out was the best option. The easiest option. The safer option. “That hair isn’t respectable. It’s unruly. Undistinguished.”
“I’ll make an appointment to have it straightened,” I told him. I wouldn’t, but I’d say it just so I could make it through another family breakfast with him and Mom. It wasn’t that I didn’t love my parents. I did and helped them out however I could. They were just difficult to please people. That part was hard for me. I wanted them to be happy.
He hummed, an indecisive sound as if he wasn’t sure I’d do it. How many times would he tell me I needed to fix my curls before I actually did it? Probably sooner than I wanted to admit aloud.
“Go help your mother in the kitchen,” he ordered dismissively. “The Clarks brought over cider and donuts. They left extras for you to take with you. I said you’d go over and thank them later.”
I bit back a sigh. I hated the Clarks. Maybe hate was a strong word. They bored the ever-living daylights out of me. And that was when they weren’t trying to poke me for information on what had happened between Killian and myself. Three years of silence had yet to deter them.
“Of course,” I said and quickly made my way to the back of the house where my mother was. Gail Goodwin was a shell of a woman, demure and shrunken—a fact it’d taken me years to realize about her. Everything about her was drawn and severe from the pinch between her brows to the deep frown lines around her mouth. Her posture, her style, her attitude. All of it. Her hair was always perfection, her dresses pristine, and her make-up subtly on par.
The one thing she wasn’t, was happy. But she’d never say that.
