Page 43 of Imperfect Player

“Ean,” she supplies.

“And Ean didn’t.”

“Maybe not, but it’s what happened. So I did everything I could to try to be the best of both—son and daughter. Not that it mattered. It was never good enough.”

You’re not worth it.

“That’s fucking bullshit. You’re good enough, and you shouldn’t have to fucking prove it. Not to anyone, especially not your parents.”

While all of this seems to be nothing more than a mild irritation to her, something for her to strive for, it pisses me the hell off. I know that feeling. I know what it’s like to not be good enough. She, of all people, doesn’t deserve that.

“Ethan? You okay? You went somewhere there.”

Her hand is resting on my arm in a manner that can only be construed as comforting.

I shake the thoughts out of my head. Anger at her father. At my own. Frustration at men who have no idea what unconditional love is and how to give it to their children.

“I hate that you went through that. Are going through that. It’s no way to live.”

I know.

She settles back into her seat.

“What’s worse is that I found myself a man just like him. Someone that I could never measure up to.”

“Kai?”

She nods.

“I ran into him.”

“Damn it, I knew I should have—”

She shakes her head.

“No. I’m glad I did.” Her gaze drops to her hands. “When he dumped me, I let him say the most horrible things to me, let him make it sound like I was a terrible girlfriend. When in actuality, he was the terrible one. Now, thanks to you, I was finally able to tell him how I felt.”

“Thanks to me? What did I do?”

“You build me up when he would tear me down. You make me feel special and important . . .”

“You are.”

“You gave me the confidence to stand up for myself.”

“I don’t know if or how I did that, but I’m glad.”

Looks like Mr. Perfect isn’t so perfect after all. In fact, it sounds like he’s a downright dick bag. I’m not sure why that makes me happy. Maybe because it makes me feel like I have a fighting chance—for what, I still don’t know. This right here is all we should ever be.

So why the fuck can’t I stay away?

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What was your childhood like? Your parents.”

In this moment, her eyes penetrating my soul, I want to tell her the truth. I want to unburden my secret—that my parents left me. I want to tell her that my father is trying to get back into my life for some godforsaken reason.

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