Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,196

It’s taken me years to realize that I’m like you, but I’m not you. And Grip is nothing like my father. I almost lost him running away from this kind of love, but it’s giving me the strength to do what has to be done.”

“Let me tell you something about your father, Bristol.” Usually I’m not even sure if my mother is breathing she’s so serene, but today she draws a deep breath. “I don’t talk about my marriage. Not with anyone.”

This I know. I fasten my eyes to her lips like I might miss some- thing and need to catch every word.

“I know what you saw that day.” She looks down at her lap and licks her lips, the only sign of discomfort she allows. “It wasn’t the first time, and I wish I could say it was the last. Do you remember when your father had his heart attack?”

I nod. We thought he would die. It was the impetus for Rhyson and my father to start repairing their relationship.

“I said I was away on a business trip,” Mother says. “But I was actually leaving your father.”

Mind. Blown.

And like a child the only thing I can think is I can’t wait to tell Rhyson.

“Yes.” She nods, a regal movement that barely disturbs her hair. “I’d had enough, and thought I could finally do it. I could leave him. I could not love him just enough to go.”

My cottage is quiet, like even the furnishings, the walls, the bulbs hold the same bated breath as I do waiting for her next words.

“When I got the call that he’d had the heart attack.” Mother pinches her lips together and blinks rapidly. “I knew I’d never leave him. It was like fate or some force didn’t want me to go.”

She looks at me frankly, her eyes as vulnerable as I’ve ever seen. As unguarded as mine when I’m alone.

“Things changed between us after that. Slowly, but they changed.”

My father had a difficult recovery, but my mother stayed with

him throughout.

“When he told me he was working on things with Rhyson and wanted to move out here, I jumped at the chance.” Her knuckles whiten through her skin as she clutches the expensive handbag. “I thought maybe I can finally have my husband back.”

She swallows. “My children.”

Shock skitters over my nerves and short circuits my synapses.

Say what?

“When we started therapy sessions with Rhyson, we also started counseling for our marriage.” Her laugh is truncated. “Can you imagine it? After thirty years? But we are trying.”

“I had no idea, Mother.”

“Why would you?” Mother’s haughtiness snaps back into place. “It’s private between your father and me. I didn’t run to you every time he cheated, so I’m certainly not running to you now that he’s trying not to.”

“So you’re in family therapy with Rhyson and marriage counseling with Dad, making things right with them, but didn’t bother with me.”

I will never figure out how not to be hurt by this woman. It’s like some claw dug into my heart in vitro, and I don’t know how to free myself from feeling anything for her.

“We have brunch,” she says defensively.

“Brunch?” My voice pitches to the ceiling with my outrage. “You mean those regular intervals when you find new and inventive ways to criticize me over vodka and a meal? Oh, very healing, Mother.”

“It’s different with you, Bristol. You’re . . . you’re all the best parts of me,” she says softly. “The tender parts, the tough parts, the smart and fighting parts. I’ve damaged you enough, and I don’t know how to fix it between us.”

“Well, manipulating me into marrying a tyrannical pervert isn’t best place to start, if you’re taking suggestions.”

“I just . . . I don’t know. I thought you could have all of that. That everyone wants all of that on some level. I didn’t want you to turn it down.”

“Maybe if I hadn’t met Grip I would have settled for that.” I shake my head, fresh tears burning my eyes as time disintegrates, and the time to go with Parker approaches. “I love him, Mother. You saw that even though I tried to hide it.”

“I recognized the signs, yes,” Mother says, a wry twist to her lips. “You were just like me when I met your father. I tried to hide it, too.”

“Is that why you didn’t want me with Grip?” I ask softly.

“Maybe in part.” Mother shrugs elegant shoulders, turning clear eyes to me, or as clear as hers can be. “At