Page 33 of The Dirty Saint

The last time I was at a club was when I was picking up men for money. Never mind the fact I was seventeen and newly pregnant. It made for a highly stressful life with little to no support or stability.

But you do what you need to do to get by and to survive.

“Ez, you should come. It’ll be fun.”

Jess shoots Aurelia a look, but she ignores it.

“Thanks, Lia, but that probably isn’t a good idea.” I grin at Jess. “Oh, and while you’re at it, keep throwing yourself at married men who have their daughter’s dance recital the next day.” I scoot my chair closer. “You wanna judge me formypast? Go for it. But don’t you dare think I won’t judge you for yours. And that includes the present.” I sit back in my seat.

Jess’s eyes go big with anger.

“Youbitch,” she growls.

“If you can’t take it, don’t dish it,” I say. “That isn’t a very good look.”

After Aurelia and Jess leave, I decide to open up another bottle of wine. I don’t drink it so much as I just stare at it, wondering why it doesn’t fix all my issues like it should.

A few hours later, I get a FaceTime call from my sister.

“Jess is sorry.”

I laugh.

“No, she isn’t.”

“Ez—”

“I never understand why you still tolerate her bullshit, even after all these years. I mean, what does she have on you?”

Aurelia fiddles with her engagement ring. “Jess has been my best friend for over twenty years. I can’t just abandon her.”

“Tell me, when was the last time she asked about the kids? The last time she wished Levi or Kate a happy birthday? She probably can’t even bother to send a gift. Jessa Keaton is an egotistical, self-absorbed human being who practically broke into my home—she’s lucky I didn’t shoot her—just to disrespect me. Gosh, and her discussingmyprostitution days? It’s like the pot calling the kettle black.”

“She was drunk; she didn’t know what she was saying. That’s how she gets.”

“It sounds like you’re making excuses for her shitty behavior.”

“What do you want from me, Ezra,” Aurelia demands. “I’m not like you; I don’t just cut people out of my life.”

“Is this about mom again,” I ask. “Really?”

“She called me the other day and told me you two had a fight over Noah. You should’ve heard her, Ez. She was so shaken up over it.”

“Oh, please. There is absolutelyno waythat’s true.”

“She wants to make amends, however she can’t do that if you’re so unwilling.”

“This isn’t about me,” I snap. “This about mom treating me likeshitfor years, and I just put up with it. But I’m done. I will not allow her to continue to hurt me and act like it doesn’t affect me when it does. I have spent too many years being at her mercy, and I won’t do it anymore.”

I was five years old, the first time my mother ever laid a hand on me. I had been ripping the pink bows out of my hair that she always forced me to wear to even though she knew how much I hated them.

I can still remember the sting of her hand on my face. Tears filled my eyes, but I refused to let them fall, partially due to shock and another due to embarrassment. I just couldn’t believe someone who was supposed to love me was also capable of hurting me.

When my father found out, he was notably enraged, though he didn’t do much about it. He simply told my mother it better not happen again.

I’m sure you can figure out how well that worked.

“She’s said she’s sorry.”

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