Page 15 of The Summer You Found Me

“It’s only been a few weeks,” he says instead. “Give it time. You should come out to the yard with me tomorrow. There’s nothing like a good workout to make things look brighter.”

I raise a brow. “You and I have very different feelings about exercise.”

He walks around the counter to slide his plate into the dishwasher. “Wednesdays are pretty slow. I’ll try to get home early.”

You don’t have to. It’s on the tip of my tongue. Except the minutes I spend talking to him are pretty much the only break I get from the shit inside my own head.

And I guess I sort of like having him around.

* * *

Beck raisesa brow at the two throw pillows I splurged on today for his couch, but says nothing as he takes a seat beside me and turns onGame of Thrones.

I’m beginning to see why this show was so popular. There’s alotof sex.

“You know what makes no sense?” I ask.

He laughs under his breath. “Here we go.”

I ignore this. “There’s a covenant between the King and the Great Houses, right? The Great Houses are the source of all his power since he’s got no dragons. So why are they kissing his ass? He needs them more than they need him.”

The corner of Beck’s mouth twitches. “So what are you suggesting?”

“I’m just saying that if I was Ned Stark, I’d have started talking to the other houses and making some fucking demands years ago.”

He laughs again. It’s clearlyatme, since I’m not laughing. “Of course you would, Evil Queen. Just watch the show.”

I continue to mentally tally the ways I’d handle power better than everyone in Westeros and list who I’d kill and in what order. I plan to share all this with him the minute the show ends. But he’s got an agenda of his own.

He turns to me as the credits roll. “Did you ever try to look for your dad?”

Pretty much everyone onGame of Thronesappears to be illegitimate somehow, so I should have anticipated the question.

“Why would I look? He never lifted a finger to help me, so fuck him.” I have no real memory of my mother, and on my birth certificate it simply says “John Doe” for the father. People are always shocked by my lack of interest in the man responsible for fifty percent of my DNA, but it makes perfect sense to me. I’ve known enough terrible people whotheoreticallyhad good intentions…a man who abandoned his own child never had them in the first place.

Beck’s lips press together as he pauses for a second. “Maybe he never knew you existed, though.”

He can’t believe my father would be the kind of asshole who’d abandon a child because he himself would never be that kind of asshole. I can very easily believe it because, well, look at me. I’m a jerk. I got itsomewhere.

“You think my motherchoseto drop out of college and parent me alone, with no financial assistance whatsoever?”

“From what you’ve described, it sounds like your mother made any number of illogical decisions.”

I suppose he has a point. When I was small, I put my mother on a pedestal because when you have a huge hole in your life, you want to fill it with something, even something illusory. But over time I faced facts—my mother wasn’t better than a single foster parent I’d had. She wasn’t better than the ones who ignored me or mocked me or even the ones who hit me. At leastthey’dnever abandoned me. I was three when someone called protective services on my behalf because they’d found me wandering a city street alone.

She overdosed a month later. She didn’t deserve a fucking pedestal, but there’s zero reason to hope my father does either.

“I just don’t see anything good coming out of it,” I reply. I toy with the hem of the blanket, suddenly uncomfortable. “Thanks for coming home early again. I know you had better things to do.”

He gives me his almost smile. “It’s possible your company is slightly more entertaining than that of a bunch of drunk guys hitting on girls and talking about high school a decade later.”

I laugh. “My company hasn’t been entertaining in a long time.”

“You seem to be under the impression that everyone only likes the coked-up version of you.”

I lie back on the couch, staring at the screen. “The coked-up version is the only one that’s palatable. I’m sour and mean inside without it.”

He’s quiet for so long I’ve almost forgotten what I said when he finally replies. “No, you’re not. You’re a porcupine. A sharp and occasionally painful exterior to protect the vulnerable spots.”

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