Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75289 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Her hands hover anxiously just above the table. “Can I touch it?”
“Absolutely. Touch anything you like. It’s not delicate.”
“I disagree. Look at all those pieces and wires! Those screws there are so tiny! Are you going to make it look like it has real fur?”
Her delight in a project that’s been solely mine up until this point is like a cup of hot tea on a cold night. No, that’s too token. It’s like doing the perfect installation of a state-of-the-art AC and having it do its job exactly as it’s supposed to. Most people won’t get excited about that, but most people don’t deal with refrigeration on a daily basis. Not that I’m out there in the field very often, but I do know how to install, uninstall, and troubleshoot every single one of the company’s products.
Amalphia turns, scrunching up her nose. “Did you guys rename your company?”
It’s uncanny how she can just read my mind. “We did. It used to have our name on it, but Beanbottom doesn’t have such a nice ring. My mom came up with something different. She thought it was brilliant.”
“I think it’s funny too. Witty. But…” Her eyes practically cross. “I don’t know if I like your parents all that much.”
She’s talking about what I told her in the kitchen when I lost my mind and just blurted it all out.
I guess I just figured it was only fair that she knew. She should know the history between myself and Candice so she has some idea where Reginald fits into all of it. I could have told her the same version I’ve given others the few times I’ve been asked.
I could have said nothing.
Instead, I gave her the honest truth. A truth I haven’t told anyone since the night I went to my parents when I was sixteen, confused, scared, and heartbroken.
They didn’t believe me. It was one of those situations they liked to term delicate. I understand why they believed what Candice was saying and not me. I understood then, and I definitely understand it as an adult. The thing is, even after all the money they’ve paid out to her, and then later, the money I paid, they still don’t believe Reginald isn’t my son. They have never requested a paternity test. They barely listened to me that night. They were already too busy calculating damage control. To them, it doesn’t matter whether Reg is or isn’t. It doesn’t prove that I didn’t do what Candice said I did.
It’s a terrible thing, and even telling the truth paints me in a bad light. I’ve heard people who were innocent and thrown in jail anyway say it doesn’t matter if you actually committed the crime. What matters is being accused in the first place. You’re not really innocent until proven guilty. I was always going to be guilty with no chance of redemption. I try to see it the way my parents did. Would I have believed me? We never had a good relationship. They were never much more than distant. They really didn’t even know me. But still, it’s a sliver under my skin that I’ve never been able to pick out, and all it’s done is fester.
I haven’t been buying Candice’s silence. I’ve been trying to ensure Reg is okay. That he wanted for nothing, had a great education, and turned out to be a good person.
Ever since the thuggery incident, I hate the feeling I’ve had that I’ve failed in that respect as well.
I realize it’s been quiet here for too long.
I’m awkward now, trying to figure out if Amalphia is calculating where my story has plot holes and flaws.
But why would she do that if she just said my parents aren’t her favorite people?
I study her carefully, and she studies me back. We’re having a staring contest to end all staring contests, but it doesn’t appear she’s digging loopholes out of my truth. She isn’t actively setting mental traps in her mind that will catch me off guard in the future.
I’d met her twice before, but back in the kitchen, it was sixteen-year-old me standing there, on the verge of having my whole life and future crumble down around me for something I had never done and would never do, but instead of judgment and condemnation, all I found was empathy.
Ever since that night, I haven’t been very good at doing emotional shit. But the soft way Amalphia is looking at me, with her superpower X-ray vision eyes that turn into suction cups that can suck out any and all emotions, makes my chest respond with a weird little shiver and a pull toward her.
“For the record, it’s okay to be pissed. I would be too. I don’t care who you are. Man or woman.”
“I just…I wish I could put it behind me somehow. I’d say I wish I could be normal, but normal is such a relative term. What’s normal, really? Do you know anybody in this world, rich, poor, or in between, who is just meh?”