Breathe Page 6

  And those speak volumes.

  He abandoned me.

  Killed my hope.

  Didn’t notice when someone stole my innocence.

  Lost time is forever gone but memories trickle through the crack of my mind on a continuous loop.

  “Hey, Josey-pie,” he greets, his voice warm and happy as he stands to hug me. It’s been so long. His arms are a welcome reprieve. He holds me together at this moment, collecting my pain and borrowing the weight so it’s not unbearable. Then as soon as it’s there, it’s gone.

  “Your father and I would like to speak with you,” Marsha interrupts our tiny moment, the little span of time we’ll never get back. Remember time is the biggest liar of all.

  Don’t be fooled.

  “Sit,” she suggests, waving me to the table. Dad pulls out a chair, and as I lower myself, he tucks me in. My stomach feels all sorts of uncomfortable with the simple fact that Marsha’s leading this family dinner. Whatever comes out of her mouth is usually bad. It holds no merit, but he allows it. Every single time.

  Wherever Clayton Moore disappeared to, I’d like to file a missing person’s report.

  “Your dad and I were discussing your absence...” she drones on, and I don’t listen, using this time to think of all the restaurants in Hollow Ridge and Hawthorne and wondering if any needs a head chef. Since we’ve met, I’ve learned to block out her talks and gibberish about being a family. She’s not kind, she’s fake, and we have enough plastic in the Hollow Ridge Bay that we don’t need her polluting it further.

  “Josephine Ellis Moore.” My dad breaks me from my silence, reprimanding me for my lack of respect.

  “Sorry, Dad. I have a lot on my mind.” It’s a lame excuse, but truthful, nonetheless.

  “She asked why you’re not working tonight,” he reiterates.

  “Ah, you see... I quit.” Taking in a haggard breath, I blink the disappointment away. For a moment, the thought of lying occurred to me, but then I realized Marsha and her goons probably stalk me enough to know I’m falsifying that information. Neither seems surprised, and they both exude an almost vague understanding along with their disappointment.

  “Again?” Marsha goads, placing her hand on her hip with judgment in her expression.

  “This guy—”

  “Enough!” my dad interrupts. Whenever Marsha and I spat, he gets aggravated, usually shutting us down with his booming voice. “Let’s eat, then discuss. I’m famished.”

  And at that, we’re no longer speaking.

  Just like normal.

  Voiceless meals with miserable human beings.

  Cheers.

  Dinner goes on without a single word passed among us three. I’d say it’s peaceful, but we all know that’s a lie. It’s awkward and stifling, almost like being locked into a room without windows. I’m not a fan.

  “Marsha and I were discussing your future,” Dad finally breaks the cloak of invisibility I tried clinging to. He takes a swig of his wine, then pats his mouth like he’s regal and important. He is, being a mayor and all, but he’s not to me. Not anymore. “We want you to move back home. My next campaign—”

  “You’re fucking joking,” I spit, my voice louder than I’ve ever allowed it to rise. Never at my dad. Never swear. Never show weakness. Never bend. “You cut me out of your life for her, and now you suddenly want me to pretend I’m okay with that?”

  “Lower your voice, Josephine. We don’t raise our voices or curse in this household.”

  “Again, until she showed up,” I let out, frustration seeping from my pores.

  “I need to show a solidified family front and not a daughter shacked up with some surfer urchin who doesn’t know the difference between a salad fork and a dinner fork.”

  A snort escapes me. I can’t help it. It’s an accurate depiction even though that isn’t the issue. The real one is the fact that he still believes he has any control over me. He lost that when he practically disowned me for my choices.

  “If you’re not home, you set a bad precedent, showing others that they don’t have to respect me and my image if my own daughter can’t,” he continues, as if I didn’t laugh at his previous comment.

  “I’m not moving back here,” I bite out, folding my arms across my chest.

  “I think you are,” he challenges with wrinkles lining his forehead. “I know you’re struggling. Why else, out of the blue, would you call me? Money talks, honey. It’s screaming that something went wrong.” He brings his hands together and sets them on the table, something he wouldn’t ever do while eating. “You’re easy to read. Did you get fired? Is that why you called? You can’t afford rent with that lowlife? You’re just going to ask for money and run home to him, supporting his pot smoking and alcohol habits...?”

  My tongue hurts as my teeth pinch the life out of it, holding back every bitter thing I want to say. As much as he’s callous toward me, threatening with words and belittling me, I can’t react. What choice do I have? But I can’t hold it in, not when his snide smirk comes through, all triumphant and golden, like he’s the man. He must forget that being the man isn’t the same as being a man.

  “For your information,” I snap, “I left him. Caught him fucking a tramp on our bed. So, no, Dad. I’m not going home. I’ve been at my friend Gray’s house for the past two days, and that’s where I’ll stay.” He goes to say something, but I can tell where his confidence falters and his face falls with sadness, and I don’t allow him. “I came to you because you’re my dad. I needed someone to talk to, to help me, support me, and maybe even tell me it’s not my fault. I didn’t sign up for this. None of this.” By the end, the betraying tears leave my eyes, and my voice is hoarse with emotion. It’s not like I cry often. Or ever. But my dad and his words, all of it hurts me. This distance he’s put between us, the way he allows his wife to talk to me, and the way he now speaks to me as if I’m not his daughter.

  It’s a mess.

  I hate it.

  I hate him.

  Scooting my chair back, I leave without another word. His money is useless to me when he’s such a despicable man. I’m not even remotely okay with the way he behaves. And as he calls after me, chasing me out the door, I don’t stop.

  Like the stand-up guy he is, he doesn’t follow me past the front door, saving whatever useless pride he has left when he lets me leave.

  Goodbye, Dad. Don’t worry. I didn’t need you then, and I don’t need you now.

  Chapter Nine

  The Night Before

  Joey

  After the train wreck of a dinner—if you could call it that—I go back to Gray’s. She’s out with some girl from high school who begged to see her. Honestly, I need her here to talk, listen, or even just vent to so I’m not alone. Being alone is miserable. It’s one of my most troubling traits since Mom disappeared. Being abandoned is the other. Clinging onto things that matter seems to be my default setting.

  I fell asleep right after taking a long bath in the Jacuzzi tub. Not sure how I didn’t spend every spare moment in that thing. It’s like a mini hot tub for my own pleasure. As I sit here, staring at the package I took that night, I bite my lip. Contemplation runs thick through me. It’s not my apron. Took me reading who it was from to tell me that it’s something bigger.

  Much bigger.

  Instead of dwelling, I open the box, wondering if hell froze over.

  Inside sits a little four-by-six note. You’ve been cordially invited... Flipping it over, I read the back, shock slicing at me like a paper cut.

  Dear Ms. Moore,

  We were eager to see your application for Culinary Con. It’s not surprising to see your long list of accomplishments in your short life, but we’re proud to represent you on this new venture.

  It brings us great pleasure to select you for the Raffle Chef Contest. Your donation was greatly appreciated, and we hope you find your dream career. All restaurants involved are hugely renowned for their service and etiquette. They’d be lucky to have a
dedicated chef such as yourself.

  The event will be held the twenty-seventh day of May. We know it’s a last-minute addition, but we couldn’t resist the recommendation letter we received in your honor.

  Please accept this outfit, we were informed by Mayor Moore of your size. See you there.

  Sincerely,

  Culinary Con Founder, Ted Gehrig

  Application? May 27th? That’s today! My eyes nearly bug out. Anger. Horror. Excitement. It’s infused in each intake of breath. How could he? How can I not accept? What if I’m given the chance to get into a top-five restaurant? It’s not like I could jump into this career otherwise because I’m considered inexperienced.

  But Dad.

  He did this.

  With him, there are always strings attached. It’s not like he did this out of the kindness of his heart, because he has his own agenda. He always does. I remove the packing paper to see what rests inside. My eyes connect with black material, and I inwardly groan. It better not be a dress. Dad knows exactly how I feel about the lack of style dresses have.

  Pulling it out, I notice the material is stiff. It’s going to make my skin itch, I’m sure of it. That, or it’ll crawl. Especially knowing my dad is basically selling me to the highest bidder—his own personal hooker for hire. I’ve heard of Culinary Con. It’s only for the highest-ranking chefs and restaurant moguls. You’re put into a drawing raffle, and the more tickets you buy, the largest chance you have of winning a chef. That means I’ll go to some dick who’s loaded, I’m sure. It’s fate, isn’t it? Probably someone my dad greased palms with. Because why the hell not?

  I’m tempted not to show up, so my dad’s generous donation will go toward nothing. He deserves it. It’d show him right. But I don’t have a choice. I’m jobless. And homeless, as soon as Francis and Gray get sick of me.

  I hold the dress up against my body in the mirror. It’s going to be a tight fit, showing off every little detail of my body.

  Yay.

  Rolling my eyes, I decide to take a shower. After two hours of blow-drying my hair and making it presentable, I start to wonder why the hell I’m putting myself through this. Another hour passes by the time I’m done with my face and wearing my outfit. My skin is already irritated with the restraining feeling of the expensive material. If jeans and a crop top were acceptable, I’d change out of this in a heartbeat.

  Deciding to pack them in my bag as a just in case, I face myself in the mirror. I don’t look like me. I look like her. And her. And her. And her. All the women who live for this shit, the ones who have to work so hard to be pretty on the outside because their insides are dead. That’s exactly what I appear to be trying to do right now.

  Knock. Knock. The door sounds out from beside me. For once, I closed it, knowing I’d be nearly naked the entire time I got ready. Opening to see who is on the other side, I spot Francis.

  “Hey,” he says awkwardly.

  We’ve got to stop meeting like this. It looks bad. Very, very bad. Not that I mind the company or the view, but it makes me look shady. Not to mention that if Gray walked in on the way he flirts, she’d probably kick me to the curb.

  “Hi,” I reply lamely, not knowing what to say.

  “How did dinner go?”

  I cringe.

  He stares at me as a million things go through my mind. It was bad, and that’s understating the disaster it truly turned out being.

  “That well?” he jokes, but he doesn’t know the half of it. I bite my lip, holding back all the words I want to say but can’t. Then I realize how weird it must feel not to invite him in. We stand weirdly at the door, and I open it wider, waving him in.

  “If a train wreck with a bazillion passengers is considered good...” A laugh escapes me at the euphemism, knowing it’s overdramatic. He chuckles at me, shaking his head. Tonight, he’s wearing distressed jeans, a button-up that’s rolled at the sleeves, and his hair is brushed back. I stare for far too long before he winks, throwing me back out of my headspace.

  “Could be worse.”

  “Really?” I ask, exasperated.

  “Well, you could have your wife try to run you off the road, try to take your inheritance, and make your daughter believe you’re a drug-abusing dead man for fifteen years,” he explains simply as though this isn’t something bigger than it is. The amusement in his tone should make me laugh, but I’m completely speechless. “What? Cat caught your tongue, ma coccinelles?”

  “You drop, like, the biggest bomb on my lap, dude. What do you think?” I mock. Is it true? There’s no way—

  “Yeah, Gray’s mom was a peach,” he confirms.

  —it’s true.

  “Wow,” is all I get out. I’m seriously at a loss here. How the hell does one cope with that level of crazy? No wonder Gray keeps her distance when it comes to topics of the heart. That’d be rough.

  “Yeah, but it’s all over now. I’m happier than I’ve ever been.” As he says the words, I see the possibilities of everything he and Gray have been through. It makes me want to hug the sadness out of them, fix them somehow, and help... but how do you help a man and a kid who have everything?

  “That’s good,” I finally respond.

  “Anyway,” he starts, staring at me with interest. “Where are you headed in that?” He says that like he can’t say anything more without being too forward. I appreciate it. I’m so close to just asking him if he’s interested and seeing if it leads to anywhere. It couldn’t. I wouldn’t. But God, does it sound nice.

  “An event my father pimped me out to,” I groan. Hanging my head in shame for just thinking it’s something I’d do, I hope he doesn’t see me as weak. We may barely know one another, but for some reason, him seeing me as frail makes me sadder than it should.

  A few seconds pass, the silence feeling like sensory overload rather than the opposite. He tips my chin up; his soft fingertips—nothing like how a working man’s hands would feel—caress my skin, feathery soft, warm, and with care. I can’t hold back the tiniest grin, loving how each move feels calculated and kind. Full of promise and suggestion. Two things I’m not allowed to want. I shouldn’t even consider it with what happened with Wes only three days ago.

  “Don’t go,” he whispers, so close—too close if we consider Gray.

  “I-I,” I stumble over excuses and reasons, not knowing which way is up or down. His warring gray eyes, stubbled cheeks, and rosy lips mere inches from mine. “I have to.” It’s a weak attempt at words, but it gives me some ground.

  “You can always stay here... with me,” he suggests. His breath is warm on my lips, yet I’m shivering and unable to think of words. Gray’s dad is too much. And if I allow myself to stay, things will only get bad—better for me—bad for Gray.

  I won’t do that to her.

  I can’t.

  Begrudgingly, I pull back. The need to seal my lips to his, to take his mouth with everything I have, and have him make me feel good, burns my skin. It’s prickled with unused energy and unsatisfied desire. “I’ll see you when I get back, Francis.” It’s all I can offer. It’s all we can ever be. I look back at him before leaving the door, and his gaze sets my skin ablaze. His desire swims in his irises like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I bite my lip to avoid running to him, but it seems to only propel him to me. In the next moment, he’s face-to-face with me, cupping my jaw tenderly.

  His lips descend on mine in a hot second, brushing mine with soft fervor and passion, making my heart rebel against my chest. We kiss for only seconds, moments flurrying like embers to the sky, and then we break apart. My gaze lands on him, seeing the ardor seeping from his expression, letting me know everything I need to know.

  I have to leave.

  “I’m sorry,” he placates, his voice grittier, his accent stronger than ever. “I didn’t want to live the rest of my life not knowing.” Words are stuck in my throat, my need to get out of here increasing, so I grab my overnight bag and force my legs to move outside the room and out the front
door.

  Chapter Ten

  The Night Before

  Toby

  I arrive in Vegas three hours after clicking RSVP. Dale called me immediately, excited for me to come. He said since it was such a late addition, he wouldn’t be able to have a reserved seat for me.

  The party is in five hours, and I have my best black and white three-piece Dior suit ready for the occasion. The plan consists of doing my normal ten-thousand-dollar donation and then some for raffles.

  That’s how this works.

  Shake some hands. Grease some palms. Get recognition.

  You raffle for a top-of-the-pyramid kind of chef. They’re well-known, experienced, and know their shit. It’s exactly what I need for tonight. Before taking the trip, I called Francis. He told me to stay sober or I’d lose my balls. He’s trying to warn me because Ellie basically got him wasted and married him. Ellie. My mind travels to the Antichrist herself. She fucked up a lot before her untimely demise.

  The best thing that came of her death was Gray being reunited with Francis. That was the worst-kept secret. It made zero sense as to why he stayed away. I get he had a kid he wanted to protect, a fortune, and even his family name, but Gray grew up thinking her dad died drunk. Seeing her face when we brought up Francis over the years made me sad. Nate and I were in the loop. We knew and couldn’t say anything. What kind of people does that make us?

  Gray forgave Francis.

  Hell, she flew across the world to learn about their family and what it means to be a Satoray. She grew to love him, and he updates me often about their adventures. Like now, they’re in Hawthorn for the summer, and part of the next semester, while Gray decides her future and Frankie goes wild.

  After all the drama of Ellie, I didn’t think I’d survive. I was able to be with Lo. Truly be with her. Then she got into that accident, and I thought even then that maybe she’d pick me. But what I didn’t realize—or refused to—was that she and Jase had more than us.

  They were real.

  We weren’t.

  And in the end, I was the one who suffered.