The Negotiator (Professionals, #7) - Jessica Gadziala Page 0,54
Everything pointed to me doing it. But he lived. And he told the police some guys came in, attacked him and his friend, and took me."
"He deserved to die," Christopher declared, voice icy.
"He did. And three months after this whole ordeal, he did die. Overdose. With the drugs from the dealer I'd gone to school with."
Christopher's arm reached across the table, his hand closing over mine.
"Thank you for telling me," he said, voice soft.
It felt good, I realized.
Telling someone.
Giving someone those parts of my past.
"Why haven't you told your loved ones?" he asked a moment later, hand still covering mine.
"I don't know," I admitted, shaking my head.
Now that it was out, I couldn't quite figure out why I had felt the need to hold those secrets so close.
What happened hadn't reflected on me.
Maybe there had always been a bit of embarrassment and shame for being the child of such a destructive addict. Maybe I didn't want people to think it was possible for me to go down the same path. Maybe an insecure little part of me was terrified what people might think to learn that even my own father hadn't been able to love me. That it spoke to something lacking in me.
It was absurd.
But no matter how mature I got, no matter how much therapy I'd sat through over the years, there was a part of me that was a small, unloved little girl in a dark, scary world, who wanted someone to give a shit, who thought there was something fundamentally unlovable about her if her own parent couldn't love her more than the drugs that took over his life.
It didn't matter that the older, rational part of me understood that his addiction—and the actions because of them—had absolutely nothing to do with me.
There was damage done in those early years.
And in running away from it, refusing to own it, to face up to it, had allowed me—even a small bit—to continue to believe those ugly things about myself. The repercussions of that were likely long and wide and unknowable.
But moving forward, I had a feeling things would change.
Opening up was something that couldn't be undone.
Now that I dug up those buried parts of me, I realized they weren't as ugly as I once thought. They just needed some brushing off, some mending, some love and attention.
I found I was committed to doing that.
And I couldn't help but wonder what it meant that Christopher had been the one to bring about those changes.
I had a feeling that if I analyzed it, I would realize it meant a lot.
Which was why I went ahead and, you know, didn't do that.
Because that pattern of burying and avoiding things had worked out so well for me in the past...
TWELVE
Miller
I felt like it was a test.
Which was ridiculous, of course, because absolutely no one doubted my skills save for myself.
So I guess it was more like something I needed to prove to myself.
That I could do something that no one would think I was capable of.
Hell, I wasn't even sure I was.
To keep house and home.
To prepare meals.
To do all the things that working so hard had made it impossible to spend time learning how to do.
It was made especially hard by the fact that I had nothing and no one to reference.
Anyone could copy a recipe off of Pinterest, follow it exactly, and create a halfway edible meal.
But to have to start with raw ingredients and just... hope for the best?
Quite the trial by fire, if you ask me.
I had a giant, empty kitchen, several bags of fresh groceries, and spices on the back deck.
"Are you afraid it is going to come back to life?" Alexander asked, making me realize I had been staring down at the chicken breasts in front of me.
"I'm trying to remember what tastes good with chicken," I admitted. "I have suddenly forgotten every single meal I have ever eaten."
"We're not picky," he assured me.
"That's because you have Cora, master chef extraordinaire, making your meals," I grumbled.
"We have faith in you," Alexander assured me, going toward the back door.
"Oh, sure, go into town and pre-feed yourself," I called to him. "I won't be insulted at all!"
"He insulted you?" Christopher asked, moving into the space, somehow looking better than he had looked this morning when I bumped into him on my way into our shared bathroom as he made his way out in a pair of black pajama pants, hair bed-messy.