Page 50 of Never Your Girl

“How about we cut the crap.” I force out the words I’ve always secretly feared but hoped weren’t true. “You don’t give a damn about me. Only how I make you look.”

Disgust twists his lips, and any hope that he’d correct the mistaken belief is snuffed out. I’m an idiot for hoping that deep down, he actually cared about me but didn’t know how to express it. Turns out that’s just another lie I’ve been telling myself.

“You’ve always been so fucking difficult, not to mention a disappointment. Just like your mother. She should have aborted you when she had the chance. God knows I offered her the money to take care of it.”

The force of those words is like a punch to the gut, and air rushes from my lungs in a painful burst, making it impossible to breathe. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I always knew he felt this way. But hearing him say it cuts more than anticipated.

“I appreciate you letting me know how you feel,” I say, trying to keep any emotion from bleeding into my voice. “It’ll make walking away after graduation that much easier.”

Without waiting for a dismissal, I turn and stalk out, closing the door behind me. My heart pounds a painful staccato as hurt and anger buzz through my veins. I fucking hate the sting of tears that prick the backs of my eyes.

He’s never been so blunt about his feelings before.

As if he didn’t care if the mask fell away and I caught a glimpse of the real Richard Sanderson along with the hatred that lives in his heart where I’m concerned.

My head is a mess as I slide behind the wheel of my BMW and start the engine before peeling out of the parking lot and into the flow of afternoon traffic. It doesn’t take long before I’m going ten and then twenty miles over the speed limit. The sound of the engine roars in my ears, blotting out all the chaotic thoughts that fill my head. Instead of slowing, I press my foot harder on the gas pedal. My hands tighten around the steering wheel until my knuckles turn bone white.

Who knows?

Maybe the old man is right.

Maybe Mom should have gotten rid of me when she had the chance.

With my attention locked on the windshield, the town streaks by in a rush of color. The engine growls as I push the gas pedal harder than I should and the speedometer continues to steadily creep up until the road ahead blurs. My chest feels like it’s caving in as my father’s voice ricochets around in my head.

I grit my teeth, the weight of his words pressing harder with every mile. The faint glow of my phone catches my attention, a notification lighting up the screen where it rests on the passenger seat. My stomach clenches when I see the name.

FragileLikeABomb.

That’s all it takes for my foot to ease off the gas. The thought of ignoring her feels wrong, but I can’t text while driving like this. My hands are already trembling. I pull over to the side of the road, the tires crunching over gravel as I come to a stop.

The moment the car is in park, I rest my forehead against the steering wheel. My breath comes out in harsh, uneven bursts, and I fight the urge to punch something—anything—to rid myself of this frustration.

Inhale.

Exhale.

I repeat the pattern until the tightness in my chest starts to loosen. Slowly, I lift my head and reach for the phone, my thumb hovering over the screen.

FragileLikeABomb

Thanks for being there for me earlier. I really needed it.

Her message is like a balm over a raw wound, a reminder that not everything in my life is shit.

A reminder that someone, somewhere, gives a damn.

I take a deep breath and type back.

Me

You never have to thank me for that. I’ll always be here.

The response feels right, even though my hands are still shaking as I hit send. The reply comes quickly, like she was waiting for me to say something.

FragileLikeABomb

I mean it. You’re good people. How’s your day been?

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