The Evolution of Man (The Trust Fund Duet 2)

“The library,” I murmur. “It’s going to make it, right?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I talked to the foreman yesterday, and he said that they haven’t even applied for permits yet. Or ordered supplies. Or started—”

“They have to ascertain the condition of the building first. Better to be thorough now than have surprises later. But you shouldn’t be in the library, Harper. Not while the foundation is broken. While the foundation is shaky. It’s not safe for you to be there. Promise me.”

Safe? I’m not worried about safe. Sometimes having the roof crash down on my head actually seems appealing. A lot more appealing than a neat little Death Plan, that’s for sure.

My throat feels tight, and I have to turn away. “Harper?” he says.

I can hear the concern in his voice. He’s going to make this about me in a second, but I won’t let him. “No,” I tell him, as normal as I can. “Keep playing. Please.”

Then my mom sits down for another round, and I can turn away blindly, eyes hot with tears, lips pressed tight. I hold it together long enough to make it to my bedroom. I grab a pillow from the bed on my way to the closet before shutting myself inside. And there, with my face pressed into the cotton, muffled to the world around me, I crack into a thousand pieces.

The library looks like a war zone with temporary plaster columns holding up the ceiling and holes drilled into the precious mosaic floor.

I guess you really do have to break something before you can fix it.

Sutton doesn’t want me here, which is why I come after hours. I can think without the jackhammers and sweaty muscled men distracting me. There’s something about this broken wall that makes me ache inside, as if a living being has been injured, as if I need to sew it back together so that it can heal. But not with the butt of a buffalo or the heel of a boot.

That might be a more authentic restoration, but it’s boring. And I have the sense that it would bury the wall instead of making it come alive. This library isn’t going to be a museum. It will have modern books and computers for the community.

The wall should breathe with the community.

I’m doing my part by smoking a joint while I work, folding the sweet, earthy smell into the clay. I’m not sure it helps me create better, but it definitely makes me more willing to try. Which is how I end up on top of a twenty-foot ladder, holding up a piece of sculpted clay to see how it looks. The ladder wobbles for one second, and I hold my breath.

“Do you have a death wish?”

I know who it is before I look down. The electricity along my skin tells me it’s Christopher before I even see his stupid beautiful suit or his dark eyes. Not to mention it’s the same thing he said to me years ago when I sat on the railing of the yacht—only a few minutes before I fell into the water. “What are you doing here?”

“Keeping you from breaking your neck.”

Why does he care? “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not falling.”

“There’s always a second time,” he says, the grimness of his voice proving he remembers the yacht as clearly as I do. How he’d jumped in to save me. How it remained our secret to this day. It’s a kind of thread, that secret, binding us together no matter how far away he seems.

I climb down the ladder with exaggerated care, making sure I don’t even wobble, because he will use any weakness against me. And also because the world is a little spinny right now. Maybe I shouldn’t mix pot and ladders. “I’m not speaking to you.”

He might as well be the galaxy itself, unfathomable and dark. Nothing I say is going to affect him. At least that’s how it seems on the outside. “And you’re high. Christ.”

“This is my library now. You’re not welcome here.” I’m ready to tear him apart, to fight off all the arguments he’s sure to make. I’m ready to hate him, until his next words.

“What I said about your mother is unforgivable. I have no excuse for it. But I am sorry.”

All my anger collapses in on itself, a black hole. God. If he had come here self-righteous and cruel, I could have battled him until the end of time. Which just makes him a bigger asshole. “It doesn’t mat

ter,” I tell him, which is a lie.

“It matters to me. And if you want to request that someone else manage your trust fund—”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Never having to deal with me again.”

“I never wanted to have that control. I never asked for it. Sometimes I think your father did it because he knew it would make you hate me. It was the final fuck you.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “I thought you looked up to my dad.”

“I can respect the man and still acknowledge he was a monumental bastard.”