Page 61 of Keeping Kaitlyn

The only reason you married me was to save me from Brock and my father. Because it was the right thing to do. I was saved. There was no reason to stay.

We were never going to work. I just figured it out before you did.

She’s wrong.

She’s wrong about all of it, but instead of trying to tell her that, I just let it go because things are fucked up enough as it is. Fighting about why our marriage failed directly before having to play pretend in front of our friends would’ve made a full day of smiling and flirting with each other impossible. Meryl Streep couldn’t have pulled that shit off.

Finally dropping my pencil at about 3AM, I sit back in my chair and rub the grit out of my eyes. Hopeful that I’m finally too tired to think, I stand up and kick my boots off before throwing myself at the mattress on the floor because it’s where I sleep most nights. Stretched out on top of it, I close my eyes and don’t open them again until my cell phone buzzes on the floor beside me, several hours later. Reaching down, I pick it up to see a text from my brother.

Damien: Did you talk to Kaity?

I talked to Kait about plenty but not about her dad. I’d already decided to wait until after dinner tonight because I don’t care if he’s dying or not—Kait’s father has fucked with her enough and the longer I put it off, the better.

Tapping out a quick reply, I hit send.

Me: not yet.

Damien: Maybe I didn’t convey the seriousness of the situation. Tom is dying, Went.

Me: And maybe I didn’t convey the fact that I don’t really give a shit. If I had my way, he’d never see her again.

I have to tell her. I know I have to.

But that doesn’t mean I want to.

Me: I’ll talk to her tonight.

Dropping my phone on the bed beside me without waiting for a reply, I push myself out of bed and hit the shower.

I’m aboutforty-five minutes out of my shower and waiting for room service when I hear the elevator down the hall let out a soft ding.

“Down here,” I call out without bothering to look up from the drawing I’m working on. “Just leave it in the living room.” When I hear the crisp, staccato click of high heels across my hard tile floors, I feel the back of my neck go tight.

Shit.

Dropping my pencil, I close my art pad. Looking up just as my mother appears in the doorway, I sigh. “You’re not my breakfast.”

“I should hope not,” she tells me, her face twitching under its blanket of Botox. “It’s nearly two o’clock in the afternoon.” Smoothing an imaginary crease out of the skirt of her designer dress, she gives me another face twitch while she tries to wrinkle her nose in distaste. “What are you doing in here?”

“Working,” I tell her while I stand. She knows exactly what I’m doing. She just doesn’t consider it work because it doesn’t make me the kind of money she considers substantial enough to live on.

I’ll never understand why you insist on wasting your time and talent on such a tasteless medium.

Never mind that I clear six-figures a year as a tattoo artist—it isn’t enough zeros for my mother.

Walking toward her, I start to herd her out of my studio. “What are you doing here, Astrid?”

“What do you meanwhat am I doing here?” She looks at me like I must’ve suffered some sort of head injury. “I’m—” Spottingthe mattress on the floor behind me, she does her best to look alarmed. “Do yousleepin here?”

“Sometimes.” It’s a lie, I sleep in here all the time. Pushing her into the hallway as gently as I can, I close the door firmly behind me. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for the Halston-Day wedding, of course,” she sniffs at me. “It’s going to be the biggest event of the season. There’s no way I’d miss it.”

“Of course.” Giving her a bland smile, I start to move down the hall toward the living room and into a space I’m more comfortable having her in. “But what are you doing here, Astrid.In my house.”

“You’re my son, Wentworth.” The click of her Chanel pumps intensifies as she hurries behind me, trying to keep up. “What sort of mother would I be if I didn’t at least drop in to say hello and see how you’re doing?”

The sort of mother you’ve always been.

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