The Princess and The Jester - A.D. McCammon Page 0,19
shopping and pampering ourselves with mani-pedis. Mia grilled me the entire time for details about my relationship with Cole, soaking in every single word. It was nice to talk to someone about it. Our circumstances required us to keep things a secret when we were seeing each other. And once they ended, I was too heartbroken to tell anyone. Besides, he was part of the Westbrook Three at that point—feared, hated, and admired by everyone.
The reputation Cole earned was at the root of what tore us apart. In his mind, I sided with the enemy. The people who had hurt him—hurt us. But I had no choice. Everything I did and said was to protect him. Better for his heart to be broken than for his world to be shattered.
I couldn’t even bring myself to tell Mia the full story behind my breakup with Cole—on the off chance she might blab to someone. There’s no telling what Cole would do if he knew everything. Some truths are better left hidden.
The wooden stairs creak under my feet, and I attempt to quiet my step when I move to the next one but trip over it instead. My shopping bags spill from my hands as I try to catch myself, and a stream of curses comes from my mouth when I go down with them.
So much for going unnoticed.
The foyer lights up seconds later. I squint as my eyes adjust, searching for the responsible party. My mom’s worried face comes into focus, relaxing the tension in my muscles. It was Cole I’d been expecting to come lurking out of the shadows. My mother rarely takes notice of my comings and goings.
She’s dressed in a long silk nightgown, looking elegant like always. The thick dark hair she usually keeps in a ballerina bun falls around her shoulders, stopping just above her tiny waist. Why couldn’t I have inherited those genes? I have my father’s fine hair and bulky build. My broad shoulders, tall frame, and thick thighs are the bane of my existence.
“Gwen? Are you all right?”
“Yes, I just…tripped.” I sigh, prying myself off the stairs. “Sorry I woke you. Go back to bed.”
“Why are you getting home so late? Have you been drinking?” The concern laced in her tone causes my brow to bunch with confusion.
It’s not like she doesn’t care for me, she just simply isn’t the motherly type. There were no booboo kisses or coddling of any kind while I was growing up. It was her way of making me strong. And I suppose it worked. But sometimes I worry it also made me cold. Like her.
“No, Mom. I’m clumsy, not drunk,” I reassure her before continuing my climb. “Mia and I spent the day together.”
“All right. Did you eat?”
I pause at her question and look down at her, wondering what she’s done with my real mother.
“Cole made fettucine. There’s leftovers in the fridge.”
I know all about Cole’s fettucine. He’d been sure to post about his day with Violet on his Insta Stories. The two of them, laughing and cooking together. Pictures of her in his arms, both of them practically beaming. It made me sick seeing them so happy together. In my fucking house. Where he left me ruined the day before. If Cole’s goal is to make me hate being in my own home, he’s succeeding.
My stomach churns as I shake my head. “I’m not hungry.”
“Okay. Probably best you don’t eat all those carbs before bed anyway.”
There she is. The woman who never misses an opportunity to make me feel like shit about my body.
I bite my tongue and nod, jogging up the rest of the stairs. My bags are tossed haphazardly onto my bedroom floor, and I quickly lock myself inside. An inaudible scream erupts from somewhere deep inside of me, a few stray tears rolling down my cheeks.
One weekend of living with Cole is all it took to break me. By the end of the summer, I’ll be completely wrecked. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
The familiar chime of an incoming Instagram DM sounds in my pocket, and I groan. Phantom Girl is the only one who receives messages, and there’s only one boy who sends them. It’s like the bastard knows I’m unraveling and wants to pull at the thread. But that can’t be the case. He doesn’t know it’s me he’s talking to.
My hand swipes angrily under my eyes to dry them before retrieving my phone.