“He doesn’t like people to see his work before it’s done.”
She tugged free from my grasp and continued on, determined. Short of physically restraining her, there was no way to stop my mother from seeing the painting.
I hugged myself as a bolt of panic ripped through me like lightning. Bile washed the back of my throat. If she saw it, if she assumed the truth and confronted me about what we’d done... I was going to lose it.
If my body were a house, my mother would be the tornado blowing the roof off its frame and tearing the doors from their hinges. She rounded the easel and then abruptly stopped.
She cupped a hand over her mouth.
“Oh, God... No.”
The look of abject horror on her face made my stomach coil in on itself.
“It’s not what you think,” I said, though I had a feeling it was indeed exactly what she thought. “His model called in sick. I offered to take her place.”
“And he let you?” Her voice was pure agony. The sound of it made my stomach cramp, like a child wailing after hearing its mother’s screams. Tears streamed down her face. “I knew this would happen. I knew it.”
“Knew what would happen?”
My mother wiped her cheeks and turned to the window like she couldn’t stand to look at either version of me.
“Just tell me the truth. Has he touched you?”
“You mean like, a hug?” Even now, I was still desperately clinging to the hope that I could spin this, that I could somehow convince her the painting was the extent of our physical relationship.
“Don’t play dumb, Jett. Has Mason put his cock inside you?”
I nearly burst into giggles at the realization that Mason’s restraint—infuriating as it was—had inadvertently saved me the burden of lying.
“No, he hasn’t.”
I wasn’t sure if she believed me but asking would only undermine my insistence.
She made her way back to the workbench, giving the futon a wide berth, as if its presence alone was enough to make her sick. She cried silently for over a minute, then rubbed her eyes and said, “This is all my fault. I should’ve told you what he was, why I made him leave.”
“Why did you make him leave?” I moved around to the opposite side of the workbench so I could look straight at her.
“He didn’t tell you?” She choked out a laugh.
“Well someone had better tell me, because I’m si
ck of being kept in the fucking dark about my own childhood.”
I stood across from her and waited. I waited a long time. Finally, she wiped the tears from her cheeks and met my gaze.
“I made Mason leave, to protect you.”
A shiver scurried up my spine as six years’ worth of pain and anger lodged in my throat.
“Protect me from what?” My voice trembled. “He might not be my real father, but he was a good father to me. What were you so afraid of?”
She reached beneath the table and pulled out the shopping bag.
“See for yourself.”
Chapter Fourteen
My mouth went dry as cotton. This was it, one piece of a puzzle I had come all this way to put together.