Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 119852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
That is perhaps the most shocking thing he could’ve said, but it’s likely he’s trying to game me. So instead, I look at him warily, searching for his angle. “Was that it? If so, you’re not very good at apologies.”
“You’re right, I’m not.” He shifts stiffly in his seat, obviously uncomfortable. “But I am sorry. We shouldn’t have come at you en masse. I apologize for that. We thought we were protecting you in a way—not that you need it,” he rushes to add when I open my mouth to correct him. “But what you said stuck with me. I kept thinking it over and talking it through with Riley and thinking some more.”
I’m not sure if he wants an award for putting some mental effort into analyzing that shitshow or absolution for his role in it, but I’m not offering either. Nor am I waiting on pins and needles for him to share his thoughts on the matter when he had no interest in listening to mine. “You apologized,” I say, holding up one finger to indicate his goals for this meeting. Adding another, I say, “Is this the section of the agenda where you impart some deep, big brotherly wisdom that changes the trajectory of my life? Cue sappy instrumental music overlay.”
His eyes tighten at my cutting remarks, but as a student of the same lessons Dad gave me, Cameron quickly schools his face back to bland neutrality. His voice holds steady, eerily calm, as he says, “I never told you thank you after Michelle died, but I know you were there for me. More importantly, I know you were there for Grace, and I appreciate that more than you could ever know. You’ve been there for all of us. You brushed it off when I said thank you for that, but I meant it, Kayla. You’ve always been this presence in my life. Whether I was fucking up or succeeding, you were there for me. Thank you.” His eyes are clear, his gratitude genuine, and I’m honestly in shock at the growth he’s undergone.
“You’re welcome.” I don’t need ticker tape parades and blubbering gratitude on bended knee, but the acknowledgement is appreciated. And long overdue.
“Agenda item three,” he says, quirking a wry brow. I knew it. Of course he has a plan, I would too. “I have a question.” His leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees to watch me closely as he asks, “Are you okay? I’m not fucking around. I’m being serious. Truly, are you okay?”
I could choose to be offended that he thinks something is wrong with me simply because I’m finally putting my own needs and wants first, but the caring and thoughtful way he asks is unexpected, making me swallow down my reflexively bitchy response. “I don’t know.”
The honesty surprises us both.
“What can I do to help you figure it out?”
I think the kind offer surprises us even more. My brother has spent over a decade with two priorities—his daughter and Blue Lake, in that order. Only recently has Riley taken a place of importance in his life. And yet, putting energy into helping one of his siblings is a first. Especially me, though that’s mostly because I’m the helper, not the helpee.
I don’t need help. Ever.
Except maybe I do.
“I am happy for you, for all of you. But I’ve been feeling a little left behind, a bit one-dimensional.” I pause, letting that resonate through my mind, and reluctantly admit to myself that it’s true. “I met Riggs and Maddox, and they were different. They don’t see me as this ice queen without feelings. Or a Harrington, with all the baggage that comes with that.” He doesn’t know about Bradley. That was under Dad’s watch, but he’s well aware of the responsibility that comes with our last name. “They’re fun, and sometimes, I want to do something just for me.”
“So is that all this is? Fun?” He tilts his head, considering me carefully.
“Would that be so wrong?” I snap.
“For you?” he asks, his voice lightening a shade. “Yes. Possibly clinically so.”
“Fuck you.” But I can’t help but smile a little. He’s right, there’s no use in arguing that. I don’t do fun. I’m serious, focused, singular-minded. Except lately, I’m not. I’m more, and I like that. The thought silences me as I fidget with my ring and mull that over, the self-analysis prickly and uncomfortable as I scrutinize the image of myself I’ve created, not only publicly but in my own mind.
“It’s not only for fun, is it?” he guesses, sitting back on the couch with an arm casually stretched out along its back as though this conversation isn’t uncomfortable as fuck. “You tell yourself that it is, but every time you talk to them, it gets deeper, more tangled and confusing, doesn’t it?”