Wilder (The Wild Ones 3)

I don’t particularly know what family means to him. Cover-ups mean something different to my family. Expectations are higher and unreasonable. Lies are abundant. Lines are blurred all over the place.

Love is just a word spoken instead of represented.

“Can I ask your definition of family?” I muse, dropping my head against the headrest, not bothering to argue with him.

If reporters come, I won’t hide. I’ll simply leave.

They’re not going to dig too deep if they think I’m just hiding and killing time here, yet able to take off on a whim without looking back.

We plan around disasters. Story of our lives.

He gives me side-eye, eyebrows arching, and glances back at the road.

“I guess it’s different for everyone. Ma raised us to be able to say what’s on our mind, so long as it’s coming from a good place. We know each other too well, see each other’s flaws, and simply have an understanding of how everyone thinks and works.”

He gestures around, and I continue to stare at his profile, feeling relaxed just sitting in his calm presence.

“We may not all like each other in town, but when push comes to shove, we’ll have each other’s backs. We always pull together when the times are the hardest, and we do it because we care. The Wild Ones are just another branch of family for us,” he adds quietly. “Families fight. Families make up. Families get crazy and loud when they’re all together. At least for us.”

“I like your version of family better than mine,” I tell him honestly. “Our family doesn’t fight. Even try to tell someone they’ve hurt your feelings, and somehow they flip it to where you’re the bad guy instead. Or hell, they might say you need therapy because of just how fucked up the shit they say is. The parents have always had all the say, and the children are nothing more than decorative ornaments to brag about or be ashamed of, depending on how impressive-slash-unimpressive said children are. They truly believe they know more and broker no room for compromise. Money has always been a controlling substance used to try and force us to appreciate them, adore them, and metaphorically get down on our knees before them—”

He grimaces, making the first facial expression yet, and I stop talking, worrying that I’m sharing too much.

“That’s fucked up,” he finally says.

I nod in agreement. “Manipulation is demonstrated more dominantly than love in our family. Well, we get tough love, if that counts. Our parents have the final say in what’s wrong, what’s right, and what’s allowed.”

“Why do you stick around for that?” he asks quietly.

“Because they’re the only family I’ve got,” I tell him on a sigh. “They just have a distorted sense of family values, and a really twisted set of priorities. We were raised to be show ponies, but it could have been worse. Trust me, they’ll let you know how much worse it could have been, while indebting you to them for the rest of your life.”

Rapping my fingers on the door, I exhale harshly.

“Our brother’s in rehab, and he refuses to see anyone. Reese and I were party girls with zero self-respect for about six months until something scary almost happened. Neither of us knew how attention starved we were until we decided to start our own joint account as fashionista sisters on Instagram when it first came out.”

I pause, realizing how that sounds.

“It’s not bragging rights, but it did really well, and suddenly we had tons of attention. It went to our heads, and…honestly, for a little while, it was nice feeling like our parents loved us as much as they said they did. In all actuality, they just loved how popular their daughters had gotten. My mother is two women: She’s cold when she doesn’t get her way, and can cut you to the bone, while making you feel guilty for all you’ve ever done wrong to her. And she’s a silly little girl when she’s in front of people, hugging us and doting on us to the point where it’s disgustingly uncomfortable.”

Laughing humorlessly, I let out a long groan. Now I’m definitely oversharing, but I can’t seem to stop the words from tumbling out. What’s wrong with me?

“Or at least that’s how it seems, considering they never acted proud before then, and the high certainly faded quickly,” I add quietly, glancing out the window. “I didn’t know how much I wanted their approval until I got it. Now it just feels…hollow.”

The chill ebbs in my bones when his fingers suddenly twine with mine. The simple, comforting touch warms me through to my core, and I remind myself that I have to leave in two weeks.

“The second you consider leaving the family, my grandmother—my dad’s mom—has a fit and drags you back in with an abundance of guilt trips and family-is-all-you-have speeches,” I murmur to myself. “She did, however, always try to get us to go meet mom’s mom. We just never listened.”