Page 44 of Wanting Wentworth

Ask him to fuck me.

If Went goes through my backpack, there’s a good chance he’ll see it and there’s no way he won’t know that I wrote those things about him.

That I wanted him to kiss me.

That I want him to fuck me.

If I’m lucky, all he did was chuck it into the lake.

Clicking my alarm off before it has the chance to start screaming at me, I throw my legs over the side of the mattress and stare at the shape of my sister, sleeping soundly in the bed next to mine, and let myself feel the things I usually keep a tight lid on where she’s concerned.

Anger.

Resentment.

Envy.

Like she can feel the weight of it against her back, Abbey shifts under her covers and she mumbles something in her sleep, loud enough to rouse me from my 3AM pity party. Pushing myself off the bed, I get dressed in the dark so I won’t wake her up, my penance for allowing myself to hate her for things that really aren’t her fault, even for a moment.

My father is waiting for me in the kitchen again when I come downstairs. This time my mother isn’t with him and I instantly start to panic because there is always someone standing between us. When speaking to me directly is unavoidable, when he can’t delegate the conversation or simply write it down on a piece of paper, there’s always someone else in the room, filtering the hard, angry emotions of every unsaid thing between us into something that passes for civility.

When he sees me watching him from the kitchen doorway, he lifts his coffee cup off the table. “Sit down,” he tells me, gesturing toward the empty chair across from him with it before taking a drink.

Moving slowly, I slide into the chair and wait while silently praying for someone—anyone—to walk through the door and save us from having to look each other in the eye. I expect him to ask me about Went. What he’s like. What he’s doing up on the mountain, all alone, but he doesn’t.

“How was your date with Brock last Friday?” He asks while lowering his cup, gaze stuck to something just past my ear.

“It—” I shake my head while my fingers fidget with the hem of my shirt under the table. “It was okay.” When all he does is stare at me expectantly, I clear my throat before continuing my report. “We went to the diner for dinner and then walked up to the Square to watch the movie.”

Fingers toying with the handle of his cup, my father makes a noise in the back of his throat. “What movie’d they show?”

For a second, I don’t understand the question, or rather the why of it—but then I do.

This is a test.

“Some Like it Hot,” I answer him, my stomach suddenly bunched up into my throat. “You know, they might have more luck keeping kids out of trouble if they showed a movie made after 1990.”

My father makes another noise in the back of his throat. Before he can ask me more test questions, I keep talking.

“I had the chicken potpie with a water because it was on special and I didn’t want Brock to spend any more money on me than absolutely necessary and he had a steak and a beer. He insisted on sharing a slice of minced meat pie for dessert even though he knows I don’t like it.” Swallowing hard, I force my stomach back into place. “I let him hold my hand during the movie even though I’d much rather have chopped it off and then again on the way home. He dropped me off at 9:30 and asked if I’d like to do it all over again this Friday and even though I’d rather take a bath with Mom’s toaster, I—”

“That’s enough, Kaitlyn.” My father shuts my rebellion down with a few terse words.

Tell him, Kaity.

Tell him you’re not going to marry Brock.

Tell him no.

“Dad—”

“I’m leaving for Texas,” he says, cutting me off before I can get the words out.

“When?” I ask, confused by the sudden turn of events.

“Right now.” Pushing himself away from the table, my father stands. “Gene’s got some horses down there he’s going to give me a good price on—” Walking his cup to the sink, he dumps the rest of his coffee down the drain before rinsing out his cup. “shouldn’t be gone more than a week or two.” Gene is Eugene Barrett, my father’s cousin. Down there is Barrett Creek, a tiny east Texas town not much bigger than ours. “Your mother and Melinda Morris will have the wedding planned by then. You and Brock will be married as soon as I get back.”

TWENTY-FOUR

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