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“I’ll be down in a minute. I just need to finish up here and get changed. I should have just kept my sweats on. Old habits, I guess…” I say, trailing off.
Gulliver nods, and his expressive eyes that were so intense when he was promising to protect me, soften. “For the record, I think you look sexier and more beautiful in your sweats than in anything that’s supposed to make you look like your sister.”
My mouth falls open, but he doesn’t speak again. He just turns and heads downstairs, like he didn’t just drop a very sweet compliment then walk away.
“I’ll take this bag. Is there anything else, miss?” Beth asks.
“No, thank you, Beth. You’ve been really helpful.”
Offering me a small smile, she scoops the trash bag from the floor and silently leaves. Closing the door behind her, I quickly strip out of my Penelope-approved clothes and pull on my favorite pair of jean shorts and a lilac, fitted cropped shirt that says I’m late because I didn’t want to come printed across the chest. Walking into the bathroom, I avoid looking at myself in the mirror as I drag my hairbrush through my hair and quickly twist it into two braids.
As I secure bands into the bottom of each plait, I catch sight of my reflection. I don’t gasp or pull back in shock. I might not want to look at myself right now, but I know what I look like.
The wave of emotion I’ve been fighting to keep below the surface surges upward, but I drag in a breath and push it down again. I can’t fall apart right now. It won’t do me any good. Falling apart won’t make my parents better people. It won’t make the marks, pain, and memories go away.
When I’m done doling out the only justice I can think of, I’ll give myself time to remember. Then I’ll take a week and lose my mind grieving a family that literally pretends I don’t exist. Until then, I’ll pull back my shoulders and do the only thing I can, which is be me, and try to convince myself over and over that it’s enough, until maybe I’ll believe it.
The shiny wooden floor is cold and comforting beneath my bare feet as I make my way down to the ugly white living room. I’m not sure it’s a room I’d choose to spend time in, but the terrace that’s attached to it is beautiful.
When I walk in, the doors are open, and I can hear the guys outside, so I head that way, not even pausing when my bare feet hit the pavers on the terrace.
“Hey,” I say to Kip when he’s the first to notice me.
“Hey, come sit, do you want a drink?” he asks, jumping up from his spot on the couch and moving toward me.
“A soda would be good, please,” I say, sinking down into an empty chair and curling my legs beneath me.
“Fuck, Izzy, you look like shit,” Davis calls, cringing as his eyes scan my face.
“Well, that’s what happens when you get punched a bunch of times. I’m not putting on makeup,” I reply tersely.
“Did you ice it? Does it hurt? Do you need some painkillers or something?” he asks.
“I have some painkillers the doctor prescribed me, but I’m actually much better today than yesterday,” I say with a shrug, taking the glass of soda that Kip holds out to me.
“Want me to go beat the shit out of your dad?” Thorn offers, his expression serious.
I can’t help but laugh. “Not right now, but thanks.”
Pulling up one shoulder, he shrugs. “Offer’s there, no expiration date.”
My eyes fall on Gulliver, who’s been oddly quiet, his attention fixed on the cell phone in his hands. His jaw is tense, and he looks angry, or at least I think that’s anger.
My lips part and I start to speak, but Beth arrives with a cart full of sandwiches and steaming bowls of soup. She busies herself setting up the lunch spread on the counter at the side of the wet bar, and my stomach growls appreciatively.
Grabbing a small FedEx box from the bottom of the cart, Beth hands it to Gulliver before she nods and leaves. I watch as he lowers his cell to the table in front of him, then looks up, finding me watching him.
“Here,” he says, throwing the package across the table at me.
I catch it on instinct and furrow my brow as I rip open the tab and find the latest model iPhone inside.
“I like my cell. I don’t want a new one,” I protest.
“I already got your number assigned to the new SIM in the box, and I added you to my account in case your parents disconnect your phone,” he says as he stands and crosses to the counter, filling a plate with food, then handing it to me.
“I could have got my own,” I say a little sulkily, as I take the plate from him and fight not to groan when I spot melted cheese oozing from the side of a toasted sandwich.
Ignoring me, he makes himself a plate and returns to his spot on the couch as the other guys all grab their own food.
