30. Renee

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.

What a silly little saying. Everyone knows it”s B.S.

Words hurt. They haunt. They cut deep just like any knife and kill just as swift as a bullet to the temple.

Weston gutted me in just four of them. I don”t want kids.

If the Stepford wives” dinner from hell hadn”t been enough to sap me of my sanity, that did the trick. Zap, zap. Beam me up, aliens, and for the love of God, give me a lobotomy to finish the job my trainwreck of a life has started.

Apparently, it”s not enough that I”ve had to run back, tail tucked, to my family for help. I”ve officially become an unwanted baby mama.

The ultimate, shit-tastic cherry turd on top of the cow-pie cake?

Deacon”s acting… weird. He’s always weird. But this is different. This is something else.

He’s canceling business engagements, for starters. To us normal people, that”s not the end of the world. But it’s suspicious as hell in my opinion.

Luncheon with a Wyoming senator and his barely-legal blushing bride: canceled.

Charity event for children with inoperable brain tumors that doubles as a photo-op: canceled.

Twelve-course dinner at Le Gardier with investors old enough to have lived through the Bronze Age: canceled.

I know it”s no coincidence. Him doing this so soon after dinner with Weston means the two are undeniably connected. Deacon may wear nice suits and drive nice cars and say nice, impressive platitudes to the right kinds of people—but at the end of the day, he’s still a little boy with a nasty temper.

That”s what this is: a tantrum. His toys are the carefully curated social activities, and his version of a screaming, snot-filled, blinding toddler fury is pressing a button on his overpriced Apple Watch and sitting back, smug, and saying, There, that”ll show her.

Days pass. Weirdly empty days, now that all our usual obligations have been indefinitely postponed. I don’t dare leave the poolhouse for the first few, but eventually, depression hunger has me crawling out in search of something to take my mind off things.

So I’m holed up in my car in a Taco Bell parking lot, scarfing down cheesy carcinogens and liquid syrup, when my phone lights up with my father’s contact.

HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED.

I take a deep breath before I answer. ”Father.” I force my voice steady. Clear. I have nothing to be nervous about. I haven”t done anything wrong.

He doesn’t bother with greetings. “You are to come to my office immediately. We need to speak.”

”Does it need to be right now? I”m?—”

”You have nothing of importance going on, if your schedule is any indication.”

Yikes on trikes.Figures that he”d be hawk-watching my personal calendar. ”Alright. I”ll?—”

”There”s already a car on the way. I expect you here within the hour.”

After booking it back to Deacon”s, somehow managing to inhale my two quesaritos and Dr. Pepper down while also juggling a steering wheel, I”m immediately whisked into my father”s private business car.

And immediately jump-scared with my father himself sitting there in the back seat.

”Ah, shit—” I stumble over my words and my own feet as I ungracefully tumble into the back of the car.

”All that money for dance lessons and you still carry yourself like an oaf.” His nose is literally turned up at me. Dad has never been much of one for subtlety or subverting stereotypes. He’s a rich bastard, through and through.

I glare at my father as I attempt to straighten myself out. ”I thought I was meeting you at the office.”

”And give you the chance to run out on the responsibility? Your fiancé is doing enough of that already.”

I wince. ”We”re two different people.”

”You”re going to be married. You”re one and the same as far as the law and this family is concerned.”

I hate that concept. That somehow, Deacon being an absolute trash can of a human being reflects poorly on me. ”I wasn”t the one that canceled all those plans, you know.”

”But you”re the reason.”

”You don”t know that.”

”Oh, but I do.”

My father whips out his phone. ””Canceling dinner with the McFergusons,’” he reads. “‘Your daughter knows why.””

He turns his attention back to me, brow quirked and haughty. It”s like he expects me to put my hands together in prayer-pose and bow to him.

Yes, Father, you”re right. I”m the bad, bad wife-to-be. I should be doing better.

Fuck. That.

”I don”t see how I can be blamed for him acting like a child?—”

“Explain it.”

I sigh. He’s skewering me with a glance that I know from experience can’t be wriggled away from. ”He”s pissed off about Weston showing up to dinner the other night. I didn”t know he was going to show up, though. I don”t control him.”

”I find it hard to believe you have no influence, considering you got close enough to get knocked up by him.”

Honestly, I”d rather he just call me a slut. Feels like it would come out as less of a backhand.

”Yeah, yeah,” I mumble. “I”m your greatest disappointment. Tell me something I don”t know.”

”How to keep your fiancé happy, apparently.”

I”ve never been one for fairy tales, even when I was a little girl. But in this moment, I”d kill for a fairy godmother to come take me away from here. Turn me into a pumpkin. A nice, quiet, happy pumpkin in a patch of sun somewhere. That sounds like the kind of life I could go for.

”You say that like it”s my only purpose.”

”I say it like you made a deal that you need to upkeep.” My father tilts his head, peering at me down his nose. He”s always had a way of making me feel small. Insignificant. Locked in that gaze, I know one thing: in his eyes, I can never measure up.

”You came back, groveling, needing our help,” he continues.

”I know?—”

”You made a promise.”

”I know?—”

”So what is the problem?”

What is the problem? My God, where do I even begin?

I”m in love with a man who doesn”t want the baby we made together.

I”m engaged to another who only wants me for my father”s money.

I am overwhelmed. Exhausted. I”m broken, but I can”t show the cracks.

”Appearances have to be maintained, Renee,” he sighs wearily into the tense, boiling silence. “This family is an institution. When you cancel, when you try to bury your head in the sand, it becomes my responsibility to smooth things over. Perhaps you need to do more for your own end of responsibilities. I’ve made it very, very simple for you: Keep. Deacon. Happy. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

My father is far too cultured to ever say the words out loud, but I hear the real message just fine anyway.

Get on your knees and give Deacon a reason to ease up.

I could vomit. How is it my responsibility to keep Deacon”s hissy fits under wraps by wetting his dick, but not Deacon”s to have a little emotional self-regulation?

”I”ll fix it,” I grit through my teeth.

”You”d better. Life is hard for unwed, single mothers.”

He doesn”t even say it cruelly, and somehow, that makes it worse. He”s just matter-of-fact. Detached. No emotion associated with the idea that he”s making his daughter go through hell for help other children wouldn”t even have to ask for.

”Can I go home now?”

He gives a silent affirmative, not knowing that my home will always be anywhere that is far, far away from him.