Ripped
Page 75
I said yes, but was that the truth?
Or did I lie?
You’re a fucking liar, Pandora. You can’t have a future without telling him what you did, what happened after he left. You have to tell him. You blamed Kenna . . . but you see now it wasn’t his fault . . . it was all you . . .
God, I wish our mistakes never had to see the light of day. Like little monsters, they could always remain in the closet. But if I let my monster out of the closet, it won’t just haunt me; it will haunt us.
♥ ♥ ♥
BACK IN SEATTLE, I hail a cab and head home, my brain turning over my options slowly, the clonazepam dulling my speed. Right in front of me is the opportunity for a new start. A second chance. Why not? Anyone with just a little bit of self-love, anyone who loved Mackenna even a third of the way I love him, would give herself the chance.
Why not? a part of me screams.
I know why not, but I don’t want to hear it. In fact, I’m almost ready to pack again for a whole damn year. I have almost managed to convince myself we can pick up right where we left off, at a time when I was ready to head off into the sunset with him. I’m already thinking of how his eyes will light up like the moon his inner wolf howls at when he sees that I’ve returned. I can almost taste the desperation in his kiss when I plant a good one on him. Because that’s the kind of kiss that I’m going to give him when I see him again. The kind that makes a man stop asking questions and think of nothing but the woman in his arms—the woman luckily being me—and we can pick up right where we left off. Him and me. In love, all over again.
I’m already excited, letting the dreamer in me be dazzled by the promise ring on my finger.
She’s in her office with the door ajar, sitting behind a huge desk that almost seems built to keep a perennial wall between the world and her. “Pandora,” she says, and gives a light smile. But there’s no emotion. Her voice doesn’t waver very much.
Do I speak like that?
I almost shudder at the thought and hug myself, and that’s the very moment when her eyes—dark like mine—flick to the ring on my finger. Her expression is overwhelmed by a fear I’ve never seen on her face before, and for the first time in ages, I hear a crack in her voice.
“He told you, didn’t he?” she suddenly whispers, lifting her eyes to mine. She looks terrified.
I’m too stunned to answer, too dulled by my favorite pill.
My mother clears her throat, but her eyes remain wide and almost rabid for information as she gestures to the promise ring on my finger. Even though she remains in her seat, her gaze searches my face for clues, and several things strike me in unison:
It’s true.
“Why are you wearing that ring? I thought you were over that boy.”
I’m still very confused, but the adrenaline in my body is mounting fast, clearing my brain by the second.
“Over who?” I ask with deliberate slowness, narrowing my eyes.
“Don’t play silly. Mackenna Jones.”
“Yes. I was with him.” I extend my hand so she can look at it, and while she looks I look at how valiantly she struggles to keep her expression composed.
“And he told you. Of course. Now that his father’s out, why hide the truth?” Her eyes flick up to mine. Cautious. Curious. Still with evident dread.
“What is it that you think he told me?”
An intense sinking sensation thuds within me while I wait.
I remember her in flashes.
A flash of her warning me to stay away from him.
A flash of her telling me, He’ll hurt you. He wants revenge. He’ll be just like your father, just watch. Stay away.
Flashes of memories assail me, especially the one where I sat staring out of my bedroom window and she came to stand at my back after we came home from the park, and without even asking what was wrong, she whispered, “It’s for the best.”
“You told him to stay away from me,” I suddenly whisper when she doesn’t dare. I remember Mackenna’s anger at me and the hurt in his eyes when he saw me again, and it all comes together like a puzzle.
A puzzle that wrecked me. Wrecked Kenna.
And was devised and designed by my mother.
“What did you do? How did you make him?” My pain is so raw, my voice is just a whisper.
I know. But I need to know everything, I need to hear it from her. My own family.
My mother rubs her temples and inhales deeply, and when I open my mouth to yell at her, she cuts me off. “His dad was in trouble. Big trouble. He was facing many, many years in jail, as you recall. So I offered to cut him a deal. To lower the sentence if he stayed away from you.”
“You did that to him?” I whisper. “You did that to me?”
“He was no good for you, Pandora! He had nothing to offer you but heartache. I thought it was for the best, so when I noticed that ring on your finger, I realized he would take you away. I advised him to walk away unless he wanted his dad to spend the rest of his days in prison.”
“And you made me think he didn’t want me all these years!”
“He thought he wanted you, but you were both too young to know what was best for you. Do you think you could’ve been happy leading the life some silly rocker lives?”
“Six years, Mother. Six!” I cry.
She stares at me, everything about her motionless.
And emotionless.
“We have a daughter,” I whisper.
My mother almost flinches. Almost.
Or did I lie?
You’re a fucking liar, Pandora. You can’t have a future without telling him what you did, what happened after he left. You have to tell him. You blamed Kenna . . . but you see now it wasn’t his fault . . . it was all you . . .
God, I wish our mistakes never had to see the light of day. Like little monsters, they could always remain in the closet. But if I let my monster out of the closet, it won’t just haunt me; it will haunt us.
♥ ♥ ♥
BACK IN SEATTLE, I hail a cab and head home, my brain turning over my options slowly, the clonazepam dulling my speed. Right in front of me is the opportunity for a new start. A second chance. Why not? Anyone with just a little bit of self-love, anyone who loved Mackenna even a third of the way I love him, would give herself the chance.
Why not? a part of me screams.
I know why not, but I don’t want to hear it. In fact, I’m almost ready to pack again for a whole damn year. I have almost managed to convince myself we can pick up right where we left off, at a time when I was ready to head off into the sunset with him. I’m already thinking of how his eyes will light up like the moon his inner wolf howls at when he sees that I’ve returned. I can almost taste the desperation in his kiss when I plant a good one on him. Because that’s the kind of kiss that I’m going to give him when I see him again. The kind that makes a man stop asking questions and think of nothing but the woman in his arms—the woman luckily being me—and we can pick up right where we left off. Him and me. In love, all over again.
I’m already excited, letting the dreamer in me be dazzled by the promise ring on my finger.
She’s in her office with the door ajar, sitting behind a huge desk that almost seems built to keep a perennial wall between the world and her. “Pandora,” she says, and gives a light smile. But there’s no emotion. Her voice doesn’t waver very much.
Do I speak like that?
I almost shudder at the thought and hug myself, and that’s the very moment when her eyes—dark like mine—flick to the ring on my finger. Her expression is overwhelmed by a fear I’ve never seen on her face before, and for the first time in ages, I hear a crack in her voice.
“He told you, didn’t he?” she suddenly whispers, lifting her eyes to mine. She looks terrified.
I’m too stunned to answer, too dulled by my favorite pill.
My mother clears her throat, but her eyes remain wide and almost rabid for information as she gestures to the promise ring on my finger. Even though she remains in her seat, her gaze searches my face for clues, and several things strike me in unison:
It’s true.
“Why are you wearing that ring? I thought you were over that boy.”
I’m still very confused, but the adrenaline in my body is mounting fast, clearing my brain by the second.
“Over who?” I ask with deliberate slowness, narrowing my eyes.
“Don’t play silly. Mackenna Jones.”
“Yes. I was with him.” I extend my hand so she can look at it, and while she looks I look at how valiantly she struggles to keep her expression composed.
“And he told you. Of course. Now that his father’s out, why hide the truth?” Her eyes flick up to mine. Cautious. Curious. Still with evident dread.
“What is it that you think he told me?”
An intense sinking sensation thuds within me while I wait.
I remember her in flashes.
A flash of her warning me to stay away from him.
A flash of her telling me, He’ll hurt you. He wants revenge. He’ll be just like your father, just watch. Stay away.
Flashes of memories assail me, especially the one where I sat staring out of my bedroom window and she came to stand at my back after we came home from the park, and without even asking what was wrong, she whispered, “It’s for the best.”
“You told him to stay away from me,” I suddenly whisper when she doesn’t dare. I remember Mackenna’s anger at me and the hurt in his eyes when he saw me again, and it all comes together like a puzzle.
A puzzle that wrecked me. Wrecked Kenna.
And was devised and designed by my mother.
“What did you do? How did you make him?” My pain is so raw, my voice is just a whisper.
I know. But I need to know everything, I need to hear it from her. My own family.
My mother rubs her temples and inhales deeply, and when I open my mouth to yell at her, she cuts me off. “His dad was in trouble. Big trouble. He was facing many, many years in jail, as you recall. So I offered to cut him a deal. To lower the sentence if he stayed away from you.”
“You did that to him?” I whisper. “You did that to me?”
“He was no good for you, Pandora! He had nothing to offer you but heartache. I thought it was for the best, so when I noticed that ring on your finger, I realized he would take you away. I advised him to walk away unless he wanted his dad to spend the rest of his days in prison.”
“And you made me think he didn’t want me all these years!”
“He thought he wanted you, but you were both too young to know what was best for you. Do you think you could’ve been happy leading the life some silly rocker lives?”
“Six years, Mother. Six!” I cry.
She stares at me, everything about her motionless.
And emotionless.
“We have a daughter,” I whisper.
My mother almost flinches. Almost.
