Chapter Twenty
Winter
I stare down at the paperwork that’s been in a folder collecting dust since I graduated from college.
I’m not sure why I kept the award letters and semester grade reports.
Maybe because I was proud to have gotten any scholarships at all.
I wasn’t exactly an A student, but I did okay.
By my senior year of high school, I realized how hard I’d need to work to get money for college because we didn’t have any.
Community college wasn’t cheap, so any help I could get was better than none.
The school guidance counselor helped me apply for some of the scholarships, and I’d researched others.
But the one thing I refused to do was use my parents’ death as an excuse to earn pity money.
My counselor told me not to think of it that way; that my mom and dad would have been happy to help me fund college.
It never sat well with me, though. I wanted whatever I got to be because I earned it, not because people felt bad for me.
As I search through the paperwork to find the one I’m thinking of, anxiety bubbles under my skin.
I’ve been out of work for two days now, but I’m doing whatever I can from my phone at home.
After hearing Ashton Dessen’s explanation, Janel told me to take time for myself, and I appreciate her kindness.
But I don’t deserve it.
Ever since Thomas walked out, everything I’ve done has caved in around me. Not out of regret. Well, not only because of that. I’d done something for myself for once. Not because of what was the right choice, but because I needed to put myself first. He helped me do that.
It was the shame that ate at me whenever it got too quiet. And since I haven’t been to work, that silence has been deafening here.
Thomas’s parting words haunted me, and I knew I was unfair to him. He didn’t deserve to be hurt just because I was. My anger didn’t justify the horrible things I threw at him like daggers.
And yet, he’d still gone through with it.
He could have left.
He probably should have.
But what was it he told me at his place? Just because you shouldn’t want something doesn’t mean you don’t want it. He’d wanted me as much as I wanted him. Maybe even more.
He stayed.
For me.
And I treated him like garbage.
Closing my eyes, I rub my chest where a tight ball is coiled deep inside. It spreads, pressing against my lungs until I struggle to suck in a breath.
Then I remember the other reason there’s a weight resting on my chest. When I open my eyes, I look down at the letter in front of me and feel my jaw quiver.
Dear Ms. Bronte,
On behalf of the Marjorie D. Essen Foundation, I am delighted to announce that you have been awarded the Student Excellence Scholarship for the 2018 academic year. This award is granted to students who show exceptional achievement throughout the academic year—
I stop reading when a teardrop lands on the paper and soaks into it. My eyes blur, and I close my eyes to stop more from flowing.
Marjorie D. Essen.
Dessen.
The name had nudged something deep, deep inside of me when Thomas first asked about Ashton. I’d chosen to ignore it because it didn’t seem important, and I soon forgot about it entirely until two days ago.
Thomas said Ashton used his mother’s maiden name after Adam’s arrest. Marjorie must be her first name.
Marjorie Dessen.
I swipe at my wet cheeks and stare at the name harder, as if it’ll tell me everything I need to know. There’s no way this could be a coincidence. It’s why my gut nagged me that day at the diner when I was being interrogated by Thomas about his agent.
My grip tightens on the paper until it crinkles in my fingers, and I have to let go before I rip it.
I want to know why. Why give me a scholarship? Was it randomly selected? I know better than to ask that aloud.
No.
Someone did this intentionally.
Standing, I abandon the papers scattered on the living room floor and go to the kitchen where I left my phone.
I’ve been avoiding it all day because I’m sick of Kourtney’s hourly check-ins and threats to come see me with Brad and Luca.
I’d love to see them, just not her husband.
And she knows it. Which is why I begged her after the sixth “I’m fine” to stop texting me.
She’s not who I need to talk to, though.
I dial the number and swallow down the anxiety bubbling in my stomach as it rings.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
On the fourth, I’m about to hang up with shaky fingers when I hear, “Hi.”
The husky voice makes my lower lip tremble as I furiously swipe under my eye again. “Hi.” My voice comes out weaker than I want it to, and I mentally slap myself for it.
Thomas is quiet for a second before clearing his throat. “Are you okay?”
The shame from earlier comes crashing back down. I’d said some messed-up things, and he’s asking if I’m okay still. Why can’t he be an asshole? The version of him that he introduced himself as? It would make this easier.
I don’t answer his question. Because I’m not, and I don’t feel like lying to him. There are already so many lies and half-truths between us, I can’t keep track. Why add to the list?
“I need to speak to Ashton.”
I expect him to ask why. Maybe to tell me that it isn’t a good idea. But he does neither of those things. He simply says, “Okay. I can make that happen.”
No questions.
No hesitation.
I close my eyes again, take a deep breath, and murmur, “It would be easier if I hated you.”
He says, “I know.”
“But I don’t,” I murmur.
Again, he says, “I know.”
We’re quiet for a few heartbeats.
I look toward the other room at the papers on the floor and feel nauseous. No. I’ve felt that way since Ashton stepped into Janel’s office. Despite that, I know I need to face him. No matter how much I wish I didn’t have to.
Alone.
Not with Kourtney.
Not with Thomas.
Not with Janel.
It’s time I faced this on my own.
I swallow, feeling a buzz of anxiety flow through my veins and shoot tingling sensations up my neck that warm my skin.
I break the silence with, “I’m sorry.”
About what I said.
About what I made you do.
About everything.
I wait for his reply.
His next “I know.”
But it never comes.
No.
Thomas lets out a quiet breath, a sigh, before saying, “I’ll set up a meeting with Ashton and text you the details.”
It’s my fault that the distance is there. Where it should be, but where I don’t want it to.
So, I try to bridge the gap I created by offering him another secret.
“The day my parents died, I was awful to them. I was thirteen. Young and dumb and annoyed over the stupidest stuff. They told me they’d take away my phone if I didn’t clean up my room.
I’d thrown a tantrum like a child and told them I hated them. ”
I close my eyes and squeeze them shut to fight off the growing tears prickling behind the lids.
Only the faintest sound of Thomas’s breathing tells me he’s still listening.
“I locked myself in my room and stayed there even after I finished cleaning it,” I continue, swallowing down the lump in my throat. “I was mad and didn’t want to go down and apologize for saying that. I didn’t hate them.”
“Of course not,” he says softly.
“When my dad knocked on my door and said they were going to run errands, they wanted me to come with them.” I sniffle, closing my eyes and remembering that night all too well.
I was sitting on my bed, stewing in my teenage angst. “I told them I didn’t want to.
I’d begged them to let me stay home. That I’d behave.
So, they agreed. My parents gave me back my phone and told me to call them if there was an emergency. I hugged them both and said I would.”
But still, I don’t know if I told them I loved them. I hugged them. I smiled. But did I say those three words?
“I don’t remember if I told them I loved them,” I whisper, pressing my lips together. “I told them I hated them, but I have no idea if I took it back.”
My heart aches so badly that I wonder if it will burst right here. Kourtney will find me on the floor, dead from a broken heart. It was bound to happen after all these years. How much damage can the organ sustain before it gives up?
“They knew you loved them,” Thomas says when the silence lasts between us. There’s no doubt in his mind. He’s sincere. But how can he know? “I don’t think you’re capable of hate, sweetheart.”
My throat thickens. “I hate Adam Burgess,” I state through the tears trying to push past the gates they’re stuck behind.
He simply says, “No, you don’t. You hate what he did. A heart full of hate weighs a person down. It slows you down. Eats at you. You’re mad. You’re angry. But you don’t hate him. Just like you don’t hate me.”
I sink to the floor and lean my back against the cupboard, bringing my knees to my chest. All I say is, “I’m not sure I know the difference.”
And all he says is, “Deep down you do.”
We sit in silence for minutes. Only our breathing is heard in the open air. I close my eyes and hug myself. I don’t know what he’s doing, or why he even picked up.
But I’m glad he did.
After a while, he speaks up. “I’ll call Ashton.” Another pause. Then, “Thank you.”
He doesn’t say for what, but I don’t think I need him to. He’s thanking me for the secret. The one I handed him without him needing to ask. Something for him that I haven’t told anybody but my therapist.
I hang up first and stare at my phone as a text pops up.
Kourt: Are you still okay?
My eyes go to the papers on the floor.
Marjorie Dessen.
Me: No
Kourtney: I’ll be over in 20
Kourtney: Alone
*