Page 27 of The Dis-Graced
I see the hesitation in is expression. The uncertainty. “Grace—”
“Drake, I’m a big girl. I don’t like to be pitied.”
“If you must know, I haven’t. Just Luke.”
“I’m not sensitive to it. I worked my ass off to put myself through college. My first two years, I worked three jobs on top of taking eighteen credit hours. Of course, I had to take care of my parents at times.”
His brow raises in surprise. “Eighteen credit hours?”
“I took the maximum they would allow so I could get the cheapest per-credit-hour rate and not have to go a full four years.”
“I see, and I must say, that’s really impressive.”
“I took charge of my life at eighteen and did what I had to do to make an existence I could be proud of. I’m over feeling ashamed of my past, but the way you just talked to me, the way you looked at me, made it all come back.”
Drake’s body lurches forward, his hand closes around mine, which is still holding a fork. “Grace, I never meant to make you feel that way. I apologize—”
“Just stop. It’s fine. Let’s just move on from the shit you stepped in.”
We eat under a heavy shroud of silence, which soon becomes unbearable, but every time I open my mouth to speak, I can’t find the words to bridge the gap between us.
“Did you take any trips during your college years?” Drake finally asks.
“Trips? No, I didn’t have someone like you to pay for everything. I just studied and worked.”
“Any weekend getaways with a boyfriend?”
“I never had a boyfriend as an undergrad.”
His brows knit together. “No?”
“Luke wasn’t the only one with a healthy dose of fear. I guess, for me, it wasn’t just the fear of getting pregnant that put me off men, I always felt like they could smell the poverty on me. No matter how many showers I took, I always felt the stench of it was there.”
His expression softens, and as much as I want to be angry and rebuff his pity, I can’t. It’s just so genuine.
“When I got accepted into a masters program, I was able to relax a little. They were impressed with the work I’d done at the school newspaper over the years, and I was able to secure a highly sought-after internship.”
His eyes downcast, and I can tell he does not want to meet my gaze, which annoys me until I realize why.
He thinks I fucked to get the internship.
As much as I’d like to tear off his arm and show ALAN what a real assault looks like while I beat him with it, it’s impossible for me to show offense with the situation I’m in. Everyone in the United States—even people in many other countries—thinks I fucked Brigger Steele to get ahead.
Tears well in my eyes, but I refuse to allow them to flow freely down my cheeks. Not in front of Drake. Instead, I say, “ALAN’s really impressive.”
“Oh? Is he good company?”
I snicker, unsure of how to put into words my exact thoughts of what it’s like to work with someone both intelligent and yet so innocently naive.
“Define good company.”
“You know, it was your brother that helped model his personality.”
“My brother? I thought Luke was some kind of money guy.”
“He is my CFO, but I mean, we do everything together. He insisted ALAN have this near archaic dialect. A week ago, it was far worse. I added some modernest to it, and Luke was so disappointed.”
“I think his tone is rather polite, it’s his words that have a bite.”
