Entry-Level Mistress - By Sabrina Darby Page 0,56

memories, newspaper articles, the few details Daniel had actually dropped when he wasn’t avoiding the discussion.

“I deserved to go to jail. I’ve served my time and I’ve paid the—”

“Are you saying you’re to blame?” I cut him off, my voice rising with the question. I wasn’t a violin; I was some cubist, distorted painting. I was a mouth screaming and an eye somewhere else, staring, stunned. “Are you saying that Daniel didn’t ruin you? Make you lose all your money? Force me to go live with mom and that psycho nutjob she calls a husband?”

“Not entirely, sweetheart. Daniel set me up, but he had good reason to be angry with me. The past, it’s complicated—”

“No!” I interrupted, standing. “I don’t want to hear ‘it’s complicated’ anymore. I’ve heard bits of pieces of this story my whole life, and there’s your side, and there’s what mom says, and there’s what the papers said and then what Daniel’s told me.” My voice wavered and I hated the watery sound of it, the weakness. I couldn’t cry again. Wouldn’t. “What’s the truth, dad? Did you drive Mr. Hartmann to suicide or were you the victim trying to make the best of a bad situation? Maybe you loved Lucille or maybe you’re the reason she overdosed on meds. Or is there a truth to this? I don’t think there is one.” I whirled around, unable to look at him, unable to look at a life that was so different from what I had thought it was. The past should have stayed in the past. It was too ugly and too complicated and no one was innocent. I just needed to figure out what was real about the present. Who I was, what I wanted to be. I just needed—

“I can’t do this.”

“Emily—”

“You should have told me before.” My voice was high and still rising on each note and I hated it. Hated it! “My whole life I grew up thinking that you were wronged, manipulated and hurt. I blamed Daniel for everything. Until I met him, and then I couldn’t make it make sense. He’s not some evil horrible person.”

“He did try to hurt me.”

“Yeah, maybe he did. But why did Mr. Hartmann kill himself? Were you committing adultery?”

“There are things you don’t understand, Emily. You shouldn’t be speaking to me this way.”

No, I shouldn’t be speaking to him at all.

“Stay out of my life!” I yanked open the front door. Didn’t look up until my father had left. Until I shut the door behind him.

Images of the past flooded through me, dizzying me with their disjointed rhythm.

I felt betrayed. Disillusioned. The last vestiges of childhood finally gone.

Chapter 18

“So Gabe’s bringing the truck by at ten tomorrow.”

I didn’t look up from the box I was taping shut. Box number 15. Storage. I had no idea how I had accumulated so much stuff in the two years I’d lived in the apartment. I had known it was cluttered but there were little papers and things stuffed here and there that I had completely forgotten about.

Leanna stepped further into my room, her tan legs coming into view, as well as the fringe on her cutoff jean shorts. “Let’s take a break, have some cold water, sit by the fan.”

The reminder made it even worse. The air conditioner was set to its highest setting but it wasn’t enough to counteract the wet heat of August in Boston. I stood, twisted my hair up and held it on top of my head as I followed her into the living room.

Which was filled with Leanna’s boxes. This was it. The real end of college, of my life in Boston. The end of my childhood. My friend was going off to grad school in Manhattan, and I was going to upstate New York.

“Sit down. I’ll get us water.”

I stood for a moment, taking in the cool breeze from the fan.

“I should really keep packing.”

“No, what you should do is take the damn test.” Leanna handed me the cold glass, punctuating her statement with a pointed look.

“I’m not pregnant.”

Leanna brightened for a second and then her eyes narrowed. She sat down on the papasan, pressing her own glass to her forehead.

“Ignoring the situation won’t make it disappear, Em,” she said. “You can’t will yourself to not be. And if you are, you need to take care of yourself. Or deal with it.”

Deal with it. I wasn’t pregnant. I didn’t have to deal with anything. But my shoulders were tight with unspoken