Page 47 of Chaos

“Okay, as in you’re done?”

I don’t sound hopeful. I definitely don’t because I’m not. I just want him to be done because the only thing that pisses me off more than someone talking my ear off is someone ignoring me.

Not hopeful, that’s what I am, and it’s a good fucking thing.

“Okay,” Finn repeats, and I already know where this is going, I already know I’m not going to like it. “As in I’m doing exactly what you asked. I’m fucking off. Everyone else might put up with you talking to them like shit, but I won’t.”

Suddenly, I’m glad he won’t look at me—that means he doesn’t see me flinch. He doesn’t see how his words cut as deep as he likely intended them to, far deeper than I would prefer. Deep enough to pierce something soft and protective andreactive, and fuck, do I react. “So you can make out like I’m the antichrist, but I can’t tell you to go fuck yourself when you do?”

Finally, he deigns to grace me with his stare. His wary, weary stare. “That’s not what I was doing.”

I scoff.Iavoidhisgaze now. I find Izzy’s and silently apologize for tarnishing his sweet little eardrums with such foul language, and then I remember who his mother is and I don’t feel so bad. I remember who the fuck I am, and I look at Finn again. “Sure sounded like it.”

“To you, maybe. Jesus, princess, not everything is a personal attack. If you let mefinish—”

Ironic, I know, but I interrupt him. “It felt pretty fucking personal, Finn. I get it. I’m an asshole, I’m a bitch, I’m the most terrible person in the whole entire world and I don’t deserve to be a Jackson. Fine.I know. I don’t need everyone telling me that all the time.”

Just like that, the hard expression making that handsome, masculine face look so severe crumples. “Lottie…”

“Don’t,” I spit, I change my mind, I don’t care if he never speaks to me again. “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t want your shitty, guilty sympathy. I don’t want anything from you but silence and some fucking distance, okay?”

He drops his chin, lifts his brows, looks at me like I’m full of shit, and I guess he has every right to think that because I’m the one who started this conversation,Iapproachedhim. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“I don’t give a single fuck what you think.”

He doesn’t think that’s true either.Idon’t even think it’s true. I think I give entirely too many fucks what he thinks, whateveryonethinks, but I’m not going to stand around trying to convince either of us.

“Forget it.” Hoisting a whimpering Isaac into my arms, I mutter soft, frustrated apologies against his temple as I walk—okay,stomp—to the stairs. “Good night.”

Finn says my name again, I think he even follows me halfway upstairs, but I don’t stop. I don’t care. I think it’s bullshit, that I’m always the villain, always the one in the wrong, that everyone can say whatever the fuck they want to me, but if I react, then I’m the problem.

He started it. He accused me of fraternizing with the enemy, with the Webers of all people, and fine, sure, I’ve done a little more thanfraternizein the past, but that was years ago. Before their ranch even had horses, back when it was just cattle, back when I was akid, practically. It was a mistake. I’m not friends with them, not now, not then, not ever. I’m not like them.

Except Finn thinks I am. He took one look at my upturned mouth and didn’t see it for the same snarky sneer I’ve aimed at him more than once, and he jumped to his own conclusions. And the worst part is, I don’t think he jumped very far. I think it was more of a hop. Because he already thought I was terrible, it took nothing, literally fuckingnothing, to cross the line into abhorrent.

Story of my fucking life, right?

12

Her words ring in his head and summon nothing but shame.

I don’t deserve to be a Jackson.

Fuck.

My brother’s grinningface hangs out the driver’s side window of his truck as I trudge down the porch steps, balancing a toddler and what feels like all his earthly belongings.

“You survived,” he playfully croons at his son, twisting to reach behind him and open the back door closest to me.

Slipping Izzy into his car seat, I click his straps into place, tugging about a hundred times to make sure he’s secure before situating myself in the passenger seat. “I can keep a tiny human alive for twelve hours, thank you very much.”

“I was talking to you, sunshine.” When I fail to do so, Jackson reaches over to yank my seatbelt into place. “You look tired. He sleep?”

“Uh-huh.” He did. I didn’t. I was up all night thinking and moping and wishing there really was a bottle of wine hidden inmy underwear drawer. But I don’t wanna talk about that. “Is that specialist guy coming back today?”

Jackson nods, and I grimace.

“You don’t like him?”

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