Page 45 of Wanting Wentworth

Wentworth

When Damien showed up Friday night, I was waiting on the porch for him, red notebook in hand, ready for him to start yelling at me about how bringing me here was a mistake. That Kaitlyn ran home and cried to her daddy about how mean I was to her and that I had to leave. I was prepared to show him the notebook so he could see for himself how none of this was my fault. Not this time. This time, the rancher’s daughter was a willing and enthusiastic participant in my fuckery.

Instead, he acted as if nothing happened. Like he had no idea that I’d gotten into his beloved Kait’s face and told her that I knew all about her engagement and to stay the hell away from me. He brought more diner take-out and a bottle of tequila. I tossed the notebook in a drawer and did my best to forget about what happened with her.

We ate and talked and drank while expertly dancing around the subject of our father and the string of families, full of broken children, he’s left in his wake. When he left, I rescued the notebook from the drawer, taking it and the half-gone bottle of tequila to the front porch.

Sitting in my favorite chair, I alternated between finishing the bottle and reading and rereading the back-and-forth between us while thinking about the look on her face when I told her that I knew she was engaged. That whatever she was doing with me was—

Before I really understand what I’m doing, I pull the pen from its spiral prison and start writing.

Sunshine –

Married?

Fucking married? You’re not even finished with college and you just up and decide to quit so you can get married? Damien said he didn’t even know the two of you were together so what the hell? Seriously—what the fucking hell? If you’re engaged then why all the flirting? Why all the dick banter? Why ask to touch me? For fuck’s sake, why would you let me kiss you? I mean... yeah, I asked for it but so did you.

If you’re in love and going to marry this guy, why keep it going? You could have shut me down and told me that you were engaged but instead you rolled with it. Made me think that maybe you felt the same way I did and maybe there was a chance that

Staring at what I wrote, I feel the back of my neck go hot and tight with another emotion I’m unfamiliar with.

Embarrassment.

Putting pen to paper again, I write out my final thought for the night.

Brock is a stupid fucking name.

Slapping the notebook closed, I toss it on the table next to my chair, along with the pen, and finish the tequila.

That’s how I’ve spent the last week.

During the day I work on my sketches until I feel my eyes cross and then I run a few laps around the lake, usually bringing whatever’s left over from the grill the night before to leave for the stray dog I keep seeing near the rocks on the other side of the lake. Making my way back around, I head down to the dock and strip off my clothes before jumping into the water.

Every time I do it, I think about one of the first entries on Kait’s bucket list.

Go skinny dipping.

Afterward, I head back to the house and call Conner for an update on the Lexi situation. She’s still claiming it was me driving the car that hit Brian Maxwell and the wheels of justice are moving slow.

All the traffic cams within a six-block radius were down for routine maintenance. By the time they came back online, all we can see is that you’re on the scene—not when you arrived or if anyone else was there before you showed up.

When I start talking about throwing my money and name around to grease those wheels, he gives me a good, hard dose of reality.

We need this done right, Went. We need to do this without your family’s money and influence because done any other way, there will always be a shadow of a doubt that Lexi is telling the truth. If we try to fast-track this mess, you’ll never be out from under it—not completely. Just let me do what I do and keep your head down. I’ll let you know when it’s time to come home.

After my daily check in with Conner, I usually call Delilah in the late afternoon, when I know she’s awake and probably sober. By the time we hang up, it’s time for Damien to make his nightly appearance—usually with some sort of meat to grill and a bottle of something you drink from a shot glass. After he leaves, I take whatever’s left in the bottle onto the porch and go through her notebooks, reading her biology notes and her bucket list until I’m just buzzed enough to open up the red notebook and start writing.

My imaginary therapist would call it processing my emotions in a healthy way.

I call it weird and pathetic.

Sunshine –

I’ve come to the conclusion that you don’t love him. You can’t. Not really. Not if you’re able to kiss me the way you did. Not if you’re fantasizing about crawling into my bed and asking me to fuck you.

Despite my parents best efforts, I know love is real and I know what it looks like—and it doesn’t look like that. Maybe you’re getting cold feet. Maybe you’re having second thoughts. Maybe you met me and started thinking about all the things you’re going to miss out on if you marry someone like him.

I don’t know and to be perfectly honest, I don’t really care.

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