Page 17 of Thick and Thin

“Why does that even matter? You didn’t have to refer to it because you and I both knew it existed. We both knew what was on it. And I was eagerly playing the part of your obedient little slave girl!”

His voice sounded hurt—but if I’d become such a good actress, surely he had it in himself as well. “You can’t believe that.”

But I did. And I felt so ashamed that I’d been such a willing victim, been so eager to find any excuse in my head to make it okay. But it wasn’t okay. I had a chance to make things right now, and I’d accept the consequences, whatever they would be.

“We are done, Sinclair. Done.” Before he could say another word, I hung up. If this meant I’d have to face a judge, I’d gladly do it. I knew now I was in the right—and my supposed relationship with this man had been full of lies and deceit. I’d been so stupid to have allowed myself to have fallen in love with him.

I sat outside on the old swing set, squeezing into a seat that could barely accommodate my adult body, breathing in the cold air, ignoring how my phone lit up with silent calls and text messages. Tomorrow, I’d tell him he could send someone to pick up his car but tonight I had far too many tears I had to work through.

This was all over now…but instead of feeling relief, I felt more hurt and betrayed than I ever had in my entire life.

Chapter 7

When I woke up the next morning, I splashed cold water on my face. My eyes were red-rimmed, the flesh surrounding them puffy. There was no way I’d be able to hide this from my father…so I wondered if I should tell him the entire truth. In fact, keeping silent about my relationship with Sinclair was the first time I’d ever hidden anything from him, aside from not burdening him with the stories about the bullies I’d grown up with.

As I stood in the shower, I thought back to a week ago. I’d just gone to my first ballet and the fanciest restaurant I’d ever stepped foot in. I’d felt like a princess from head to toe.

Now, I could see in the cold light of day that it had all been a sham. Like the ballet, we’d been on a stage, performing our parts, staying in character, and following the script. Only I hadn’t been let in on reality until now—and feeling fooled by an act probably stung worse than losing Sinclair.

That wasn’t true. I’d grown to genuinely love him, to see that behind his cold, hard exterior was a man who’d wanted nothing more than love and acceptance—maybe even admiration—from his father and knew he would never get it. As I toweled off, I realized I still did love him, and that hurt deeply, but it couldn’t erase the other part of Sinclair Cornelius Whittier.

The other part of him had lied to me. Used me. Abused my trust. Manipulated me. And, maybe, he’d figured out how to make me fall in love with him. Made me become a willing victim.

Fortunately, after I got dressed and headed to the kitchen, my father was sitting in the living room, watching some weekly news recap on television. We said good morning to each other but I was able to avoid looking him in the eye.

Maybe I could tell him everything at breakfast.

Dad had made coffee already, so I poured a cup. Then I popped out of the kitchen and asked if he needed a refill.

“Still nursing this cup, but I could eat a bite.”

“I’m on it.”

As I took a long gulp of coffee, I felt immense relief that he hadn’t noticed—or, at least, mentioned—the evidence of a night of crying on my face.

Scanning through the refrigerator, I decided I needed a little comfort food. We’d have to eat leftovers for lunch and dinner and probably even tomorrow, but for now I wanted something completely different—although breakfast was so late, it would be more like brunch, and we might wind up only eating dinner. Still…even if it meant we’d have to eat leftovers until Monday or Tuesday, I didn’t want lasagna this morning.

It had been ages since I’d made French toast. I pulled the sausage links out of the freezer that I’d bought earlier in the week and started frying them on low while I whipped up batter for French toast.

When everything was ready—including butter and syrup on the table—I called my father in. If he didn’t introduce the topic by asking if I was all right, I’d bring it up when we were done eating—maybe when I was cleaning up so I wouldn’t have to look him in the eyes.

But, of course, he knew. As soon as we both sat down at the table, it didn’t take him long. “Sweetheart, you look like you’ve been crying. What’s wrong?” Just the question brought tears to my eyes again—and I couldn’t get the words out. Dad put a hand on my shoulder and I felt a wave of guilt. The last thing he needed was to get caught up in my stupid emotional drama. Instead, he needed to keep his strength in reserve as his body tried to heal itself. “If this is about me, don’t you worry. I’ll make it.”

Grabbing a napkin from the holder in the center of the table, I swiped at my eyes and nose. My father certainly was important and worthy of any tears I could ever possibly shed—but he also deserved to know the truth. Getting myself under control, I sucked in a slow, calming breath. “That’s not it, dad.”

His green eyes scanned mine, trying to absorb my pain, hoping to root out the cause of my misery. I could almost imagine what he was wondering—was I crying because I had to go back to Denver? Did it have anything to do with the idea that I might lose him in the future? But he didn’t say another word. Instead, he continued patting me on the shoulder, offering comfort.

How could I even begin to tell him how foolish I’d been?

I would start at the beginning.

“I was so angry when I went to Denver,” I said, hoping to help him understand my frame of mind. Even as I analyzed it myself, I could appreciate how it had all happened: I’d been ripped away from the only life I’d ever known, taken from my home and my father, the one other person who made us a family, and at the worst time. Isolated in a place that might just as well have been halfway across the world, I was vulnerable—and that had been how I’d fallen victim to Sinclair Whittier’s charms.

Even now, I wondered, though…because a huge part of my heart still belonged to him, regardless of what I told myself.

I continued. “But part of me was afraid too…of going to jail, of being away from you, and—”

The doorbell rang, interrupting my train of thought. Dad said, “Don’t get it. It’s probably just those Jehovah Witnesses who like to come by from time to time.” And continued coming by because my father always invited them in to chat. Who could blame him really? After all, they were a small contingent in Winchester that didn’t hate my father, and I knew he got lonely, especially with all the time I’d spent at school—and, when I’d get home, I’d spend even more time studying. And now, well…I really couldn’t blame him.

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