Page 118 of Don't Make Me Beg
Once I noticed the similarities, I couldn’t unsee them. His unwavering loyalty and heart of gold. The way he does the right thing when no one’s watching, never asking for praise because he doesn’t need it. Everyone writes him off as the town fuckup—misunderstood, dismissed, and overlooked. But what they don’t see is the man behind the curtain, who’s making donations in secret, and using his talents to help causes he believes in.
All this time, Luka’s been the embodiment of everything this town claims to value, but they’re all too blinded by their own judgment to see it.
As much as he’s helped me recognize the type of love I deserve, I can only hope to do the same for him. Maybe someday, he’ll have the courage to let himself be fully seen without the mask. But until then, I’ll be here, loving him loudly, because in my eyes, there isn’t a soul more deserving.
My thoughts are interrupted when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see a text from my dad.
Dad
This is your last chance to come home. Tomorrow I’m filing a lawsuit personally against Luka, as well as Kingsley Industries, for violation of the unfulfilled licensing against the Historical Preservation Committee.
This is bigger than a few years in prison, Scout. Luka and his family will be at risk of losing everything, and it will be all your fault.
Are you really sure that’s something you can live with?
I stare at the phone blinking, as all my fears begin to rush to the surface.
After dinner with Luka’s family the other night, I felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I was finally free of this secret I’d been harboring, a secret I didn’t realize had been festering inside me since the day it happened.
I should have told them sooner. I hate myself for being such a coward, for being so weak to have let my parents get in my head and manipulate me into thinking it wouldn’t have changed anything. But if I’ve learned anything this summer, it’s that hating myself won’t change the past. All I can do is be the type of person who is deserving of those things, to live a life I’m proud of, no matter who’s judging.
I’m not the same person I was when I came back here. Being with Luka has opened my eyes, shown me what love is supposed to feel like. Maybe he hasn’t said the words, but he doesn’t need to. I feel it in the way he speaks to me, the way he cares for me, always going out of his way to make sure any need I have is met.
It’s in the way he sees me, really sees me. The way he not only accepts me for who I am, but celebrates me, every flaw, every scar, every negative trait. He’s perceptive, always watching me like I’m his greatest interest, and he remembers things I tell him because he genuinely cares.
It’s a far cry from the emotional abuse, disguised as love, I’m used to receiving from my parents.
My parents have counted on my fear of them, making sure I stayed in a position where I thought I needed them. They’ve purposely kept me close, kept me financially dependent on them, and kept my social circle small because keeping me small was the only way they could control me.
They withheld their love, tossing me only enough scraps to keep me content, so that I’d do what they wanted me to do. Theymade sure I’d always need to be chasing more. That I was never fully satisfied.
And the more time I spent with Luka, the easier it became to ignore them. They never had my best intentions in mind, and after all the pain and suffering they’d already caused me, there wasn’t anything left to hold over my head.
Until now.
They may not have anything left to hurt me, but my father always has another trick up his sleeve. And he knows exactly where to hit me where it hurts the most.
Luka has suffered enough for my mistakes.
“Looks good,” Luka says from behind me.
I throw the paintbrush I’m holding, startled by his voice. When I glance back, I find him watching me, his expression full of amusement.
“Here I thought I’d broken you from being so jumpy.” He untwists the cap from the cold bottle of water he’s holding and passes it to me.
“Maybe if you didn’t sneak up on me, I wouldn’t startle so easily.” I take a big gulp before passing it back to him.
“Well, aren’t you going to sign it?”
There’s a knot of hesitation in my chest at the thought of it. For some reason, an artist’s signature feels like a binding contract. A promise I’m not sure I’m able to keep.
“I don’t need the recognition,” I say with a shrug.
He narrows his eyes. “Why not? Aren’t you proud of yourself?”
“Of course, I am…” My words trail off as my eyes drop to my feet.
“But?” He asks, quirking a brow.
