Page 88 of Golden Goal

I feel my body flush with embarrassment, and soon, I break into a cold sweat. Looking down, I see that my arms have turned bright red, and I'm sure the rest of my body matches.

Even though my mother continues talking, I'm tuning her out, more focused on my impending breakdown. I turn toward Lincoln, hoping he doesn't have the same pitying look as the server did.

But I'm let down because, when I look at him, pity has taken over every bit of his face. It's a painful realization.

I told myself that I wouldn't let them talk to me like this anymore, but sitting here and listening to them speak is like an out-of-body experience. I feel like I'm watching my parents treat their child like a pile of garbage, and their words are hurting me deeply, despite my efforts to detach.

No matter how much I try to convince myself that I don't care, I can't stop caring. It's not about my parents themselves, but rather the empty space in my heart that should be filled with love for them. But I have none, and that makes me feel like a bad person.

Finally, I can't take it any longer. I stand up abruptly, causing my chair to scrape loudly as it goes flying back. "I need to use the bathroom," I announce.

Lincoln immediately makes a move to stand, but I place a hand on his shoulder, needing a moment alone. "It's fine," I assure him.

I reach over to grab my purse from the back of my chair and sling it over my shoulder. Quickly, I turn away from the table and head toward the restroom at the back of the restaurant.

Once inside, I push open the door and make my way to the sink, slamming my hands down on the ledge. I grip tightly, trying to distract myself from the overwhelming emotions, taking deep breaths to prevent myself from breaking down in tears.

What would it take to get a good set of parents around here? This night is a disaster, but at least my parents haven't said anything awful to Lincoln. That would cross the line.

I don't want Lincoln to feel sorry for me after tonight. I can't control his feelings, but it would break my heart if he started treating me differently.

Tonight feels like closure. I'm overwhelmed, but I think I can move on from the minefield of my relationship with my parents. The years' worth of mental and emotional damage will still linger, but I'm ready to let go as much as possible.

I deserve more, and this is a necessary step to achieving that goal.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-THREE

LINCOLN

I watchSutton's retreating figure, a strong urge to follow her and make sure she's okay tugging at me. However, I remind myself that she needs a few minutes to collect herself and that she'll approach me when she's ready to talk about her feelings.

In the meantime, I'm stuck at this small table with Sutton's parents. Her mother, Elizabeth, manages to grab my attention when I hear her say the most outrageous thing I've ever heard.

"You could do so much better than my daughter," she tells me, downing her fourth glass of wine.

Her voice grates on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Sutton has the softest, sweetest voice. How she came from this woman is beyond me.

Sutton and her mother don't share many physical traits. Sutton's curly hair and petite frame are quite different from her mother's characteristics. Both of her parents are tall and have muscular builds. I can see how her parents produced someone like Elliott, who seems almost superhuman, but Sutton is a complete mystery.

After seeing these glaring differences, a small part of me had hoped that Sutton was perhaps exaggerating how awful she made her parents out to be. But as I sit here, attempting to process the insane comment this woman just made, I know that everything Sutton told me is entirely true.

And that's incredibly disheartening.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table, hands under my chin. "What did you just say?" I hope I misheard her.

"Don't play dumb," she laughs. "We all know you're too good for Sutton."

What the hell?

"That's not true," I retort, unable to hide my disdain for her absurd notions.

Ignoring my obvious displeasure, she persists, "Are you close with your parents?"

I lean back and place my hands on my lap, trying to maintain my composure. "I don't see what that has to do with anything," I reply curtly.

"Humor me," she insists.

There's a malevolence in this woman's eyes, and I can't help but imagine how an exorcism might effectively remove the demon that seems to have taken residence in her body.

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