“I’m so sorry,” was all she said. At least she didn’t serve me the usual bullshit and alternative truths people give others to console them.
“Daddy never said a cross word to me before.” I choked on my sentence. I needed my inhaler. I needed my parents. I needed a hug. Millie’s eyes moved up to meet mine. Pain twirled inside them. She thought I was a lost cause, too. She just didn’t want to push me like they did.
Now that we were alone, tears streamed down my face.
“They love you,” she gulped.
“And I love them,” I retorted.
She got up, smoothing the fabric of her dress. “I know that’s the last thing you want to hear, but you need to consider moving back. I need my sister by my side, Rosie-bug. I miss you too much. Plus, Mama and Daddy are crazy worried.”
“For my health, or for their conscience?” I rested my hands on my thighs and offered her a pointed look. “How long have you known about this? About Daddy believing I was a stupid girl and about Mama acting like I was on death row?”
“Rosie…”
“Do you think I’m not a catch, too?” I laughed through my tears. Jesus, crazy was not a good look for me. “Do you also think Darren did me some huge favor by sticking around because I’m oh, so sick?”
“Of course, you’re a catch!” she exclaimed.
Yeah.
It was just that I wasn’t as good a catch as she was. The need to prove her wrong burned every bone in my body.
“Please leave me alone.” Resting my arms on the table, I buried my face between them.
She did.
I closed my eyes, letting misery carry me down a river of self-pity, and banged my head against the pristine white tablecloth three times.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Welcome to Todos Santos, Rosie.
What makes you feel alive?
Running barefoot. Feeling the branches smack my face, my chest, my feet. Getting hurt. Aching. Taking chances.
DEAN PICKED ME UP IN a red, older model extended cab truck. I had no idea where he got it from, but at that stage, I was willing to jump into a huge van filled with balaclava-wearing strangers offering a suspicious stack of candy to get away from this place.
Unwinding was never in the cards for me that night, or so I thought. I simply wanted to steal a few, peaceful moments of steadying breaths somewhere I wouldn’t be criticized.
The minute Dean’s vehicle parked in front of the mansion’s gates, I bolted out, hauled myself into the passenger’s seat, and buckled up.
I looked like hell in my denim skirt and baggy white shirt—it was Darren’s Podiatrists Association tee he got at a convention earlier this year—and my hair told the story of a five-hour flight and a restless nap.
“Drive,” I ordered, staring ahead, still unsure of how Dean ‘Manslut’ Cole had somehow become my savior, and what did it say about my overall situation. I didn’t want to look at him and chance showing him what was behind my eyes, because if he could decrypt those feelings, he’d see everything. Every ugly truth.
He didn’t ask where. Just pulled out a bottle of Jim Beam and said, “Roll your window down. I’ll put some music on.”
For once in my life, I was glad he was a borderline-alcoholic. I snatched the bottle the second it entered my vision.
“Cheers.” I raised it to the air before taking a generous gulp.
We circled Todos Santos for an hour, driving through Liberty Park, passing by All Saints High and the well-lit marina that attracted tourists from all over the world. The salty wind of the ocean hit my face and provided some solace. I drank more. The pirate radio station played sad love songs in Spanish, and even though I didn’t understand a word, they still made my world tilt. I tried to use the time to regulate my heartbeats and remind myself that everything was okay.
I drank half the bottle, but that wasn’t why my vision blurred and my fingers shook as I wrapped them around the neck of the Jim Beam. No. That was the anger.
You can’t be choosy.
You had your chance and you blew it.
Screw them. Screw them with a ten-foot pole.
Dean never once said a thing, giving me the space I obviously needed, driving aimlessly and looking ridiculously hot doing so. It was quite possible that this stoner guy was the only man out of the four HotHoles who actually possessed some emotional IQ cells. Not that anyone would guess by talking to him. Or looking at him. Dean Cole had the lovable pothead act down to an art. He never let anyone see what was underneath the surface. Which reminded me…
“Got weed on you?” I was the first to speak. He stared at the road, gold winking at his wrist in the dark—how much did that watch cost? More than all of my worldly possessions was my educated guess—one hand tapping the steering wheel, the other tousling his milk-chocolate, satin hair.