62. Renee

“Why the fuck would you answer my phone?”

It’s an invasion of privacy and now, my mother has information about my life that she doesn’t need and doesn’t deserve. God only knows what she intends to do with it.

“It was ringing. I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

“Did she tell you what an ungrateful disappointment I am? That’s always a favorite story to bring out at dinner parties.” I shake my head and stalk into the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind me. In my anger, I’ve walked into Sutton’s room instead of the guest room.

I grab a pair of shorts and a t-shirt from her bureau and yank them on as though I’m pissed off at the clothes. My hair is dripping on the t-shirt, but I don’t care.

By the time I get back out there, my phone is ringing again. This time, it’s tap-dancing its way across the coffee table.

“Here’s a thought,” Weston growls defensively. “Maybe if you talk to her, she’ll stop calling.”

I haven’t been this mad in a very, very long time. I blame my mother. Without her in my life, I found peace. Joy, even, on occasion. But right now, I’m shaking, I’m so upset. Only my family can do this to me.

And he thinks he knows.

He thinks he gets it.

He thinks he understands so fucking much, just because I told him a little bit about what I ran from.

But he doesn’t know the fucking half of it. I ran not just for my sanity, but for my life. There’s no telling what my father or mother would’ve done if they’d kept me in their clutches. Or what Deacon goddamn Carrington would’ve done on their behalf.

“Is that your professional opinion, Dr. Phil?” I sneer at him.

I know I’m being crazy, but they make me crazy. It’s why I had to get away from them. I wasn’t sure if I was the psycho one or if it was them until I got away. Then it became clear: I was so much better off without them. I didn’t care if I had to live in a cardboard box down on Skid Row or pitch a tent under a lifeguard station at the beach. I would rather do any of that than ask my parents for a dime.

Weston’s brow furrows in thought. “What the hell happened between you and your parents?”

“That’s none of your business.”

He stands and holds out his hands as if he wants me to take them. I very maturely cross my arms, tucking my hands in. “Renee…”

I close my eyes. “Look, just leave me alone, okay? Go home.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me.” He crosses his arms now and plants his feet as if he thinks I’m going to physically try to move him.

“Let me tell you something, Weston: you don’t know jack about the DuBois family dynamic. So you should keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you. We can’t all be rich and famous and successful and loved by our family. Some of us don’t get any of that, okay? Some of us are—look, fuck. You should just go. I want to be alone.”

“Talk to me, Renee.” This time, his voice is soft. But I know that move. It’s another of the tricks my parents use. I can spot their bullshit tactics from miles away.

“Go, Weston.” I point to the door.

He looks from me to it and back again. “Fine. Call me if you feel like talking.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

He stalks to the door, flings it open, and slams it shut behind him. I could swear the building shakes.

For a while, I pace and fume. I have half a mind to call my mother and tell her that I’ve had enough. I’m going to get a proper restraining order against her. I probably should’ve done it a long time ago—not that it matters, because there isn’t a piece of paper in the world that will stop my mother from trying to ruin my life. It would only serve to antagonize her. And while that would serve her right for all the agony she’s spewed my way, she’s the last person I want to play tit for tat with.

She has unlimited resources.

I do not.

And now, with Weston gone, I’m pretty close to having nothing at all.