Page 24 of The Good Girl Effect
“Camille,” she whispers.
“Yes?”
“Can I have a hug?” she asks, and my heart splinters at her words.
“Of course,” I reply without hesitation. Rushing over to her bed, I sit on the side and gather her up in my arms. She hugs me tightly, her tiny arms gripping my sides as she burrows her head against my chest.
It suddenly dawns on me just how broken this poor family is. It’s daunting to think I’m here to help take care of her when what they truly need is so much more, far beyond my abilities. They need each other.
She releases the hug first. Then she lies back down and nestles herself under the blankets. Clearing the emotion in my throat, I stand from the bed again and head to the door.
“Good night, Bea,” I say before leaving.
“Good night, Camille,” she replies.
As I wait for her to fall asleep, I busy myself cleaning the kitchen, preparing my meal list for tomorrow, and doing some light doodling on my notepad in the kitchen.
Hearing Jack’s footsteps upstairs, I fight the urge to march up there and give him a piece of my mind. I want to yell at him to snap out of it. Stop being such a ghost. Be a father. But then again, who am I to judge? I fell apart and stopped living the day my dad died too. Processing grief is hard enough, but being a parent at the same time is unimaginable.
As I turn away from the counter, I nearly scream at the sight of Jack walking into the kitchen. I freeze in place, expecting him to say something to me. Instead, he does just the opposite. He walks right past me as if I don’t exist.
My mouth opens, silently watching him as he opens the fridge to retrieve something to eat. I’m dying to speak to him, and I have so many questions, but this is truly the first time he and I have been alone together since the night at the club.
I need to say something. It would be irresponsible to let this opportunity to speak to him pass me by. But what do I say? I can’t actually tell him to snap out of it. But maybe if I could cultivate some relationship with him…
Wringing a dish towel between my fingers, I quietly mumble, “So…that’s where you work?”
He doesn’t respond as he continues to rifle through the fridge.
“At the club, I mean. Is that what it is? A club?” I continue awkwardly. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been anywhere like that before. It’s not really my…thing, but it’s fine if that’s your thing. I’m not judging.”
I’m rambling, and it’s humiliating, but I can’t stop now. Still, he ignores me as if I’m not even in the room, and my molars grind at the sheer boldness.
“I didn’t mean to follow you,” I say, which is a lie. “I was just…curious. I had no idea it would make you so angry. I didn’t mean to trespass. My father used to say?—”
“Please, for the love of God, stop,” he snaps loudly as he stands up straight.
My words are clipped, my voice stopping abruptly as I stand frozen, shame and embarrassment washing over me.
I fight off tears as he finally turns toward me. When he sees the wounded expression on my face, his features soften. He almost looks remorseful, as he should. I’ve never met someone so cruel before.
“I’m sorry,” he grumbles to himself, letting his head hang and rubbing fiercely at his brow. “Just please…stop talking.”
Obeying his command, I close my mouth tightly as I try to swallow my pride, but it’s futile. I won’t bend to Jack’s will—not like this. The persistent thoughts bubble up anyway.
“What is wrong with you?” I plead. “Why are you so cruel?”
He glances up at me with surprise, but I can’t bear to look at him for another moment, so I storm out of the kitchen, rage and anguish coursing through me. Slamming the door, I hide away in my bedroom, hoping he doesn’t follow me.
I don’t understand why I care. So Jack St. Claire is a jerk. So what? He’s just my boss, and he pays me well to do my job. So why can’t I let it go? Why do I feel this persistent need to understand him?
It’s because of thatstupidphoto. In my passion, I rip it from my purse. Clutched between my two hands, I grit my teeth as I start to tear it in two. But I stop myself before I can do any real damage. The smiling couple stares back at me, and for the first time, I hate them both.
Why am I so obsessed with this man? This family. Why have I conjured up this image of Jack St. Claire in my mind to be someone who is actually lovable instead of the emotionless,cruel monster of a man he is? How on earth did Emmaline love him so much? The disappointment of his character is the most frustrating thing I have ever felt.
I manage to stave off the tears as I get ready for bed, fuming all the same. Jack’s footsteps echo through the apartment as he climbs up to his second floor again, and I curse his name with each one.
When I finally get into bed, I am unbearably restless. The creaking of the floorboards upstairs keeps me up. That and the memory of Jack’s hurtful words. I realize now how much he dislikes me, and it stings. I know it shouldn’t, but I can’t seem to avoid feeling his scorn whenever I’m around him. Eventually, I fall into a light, dreamless sleep.
