Page 21 of Art of Sin

This time, I bury my phone under a throw blanket.

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Instead of bedtime stories,my mother read me proverbs and the philosophies of Thomas Aquinas, René Descartes, and Saint Augustine. Though she was usually drunk when she did, those readings stuck with me.

Gideon isn’t the only one who can quote great minds.

All I have left of the woman who birthed me is a battered copy of Confessions by Augustine. So many of the pages hold the mark of being dogeared that the top is thicker than the base, the paper itself is stiff and yellowing.

I don’t know why I’ve hung on to it all these years. I might possess the weakness of sentimentality where my father is concerned, but my mother can rot.

She gave me my first scars, those cigarette burns Gideon noticed. The oldest one, high on my right bicep, was punishment for spilling her scotch. I’d been bringing it to her and tripped over a stack of ancient women’s magazines on my way to the couch.

I don’t care what Gideon thinks he knows about me—he doesn’t know shit. And he’s never going to, no matter how tempting the thought of him peeling away my layers.

Thinking back to this morning, I can’t help but wonder how much was straight-up manipulation on his part. Were Finn and I merely ingredients in a recipe of Gideon’s making? Did he know ahead of time that Finn would be attracted to me? Is that why he asked him instead of someone else? And the most insidious, damning question: did he know I would be affected by seeing them together, the scene from Crossroads still fresh in my mind?

Of course he knew.

He admitted a failure of not thinking before he speaks, but he certainty thinks before he acts. More and more, I feel caught in a web with a scope beyond my understanding.

I’m not as scared as I should be.

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