Page 111 of Let’s Be Real

“Sorry.” His voice came back like he’d been miles away. “What?”

My stomach tightened. He always listened to me, even when I rambled. He made me feel like everything I said was important.

Tonight, I wasn’t sure he’d heard anything I’d said.

“Nothing,” I whispered. “It wasn’t important.”

Just my heart breaking. That was all.

Chapter Thirty-nine

Samantha

An hour later, Kelly showed up at my door.

Thankfully, alone.

Too tired to argue with her on my front porch, I let her inside. She flounced into my house like she still lived here, leaving her heels in a pile in my foyer, her purse and phone dumped on the entry table.

She followed me into the kitchen where I’d been half-heartedly making myself some toast. Not that I was hungry. I was hoping putting something in my stomach would settle it, at least a little. As it was, I was on the verge of retching every few minutes.

“We’re working on things,” she started. “We’re not reengaged or anything.”

“Okay.” I braced my hands on the counter. “It’s your life. Do what you want.”

She crossed her arms with a huff. “You’re judging me.”

“Obviously.” I rolled my eyes, over being polite. “Who wouldn’t judge you? I’m sure all your friends’ group chats are going wild with the news.”

“They’re not. We’re not telling everyone yet. Like I said, we’re still working on it. We both did things wrong—”

“Wait.” I held up a hand. “What about Scarlet? Are you friends with her again?”

“Of course not,” she snapped. “She’s a disloyal witch. I never want to see her two raggedy faces again if I can help it.”

I sputtered a dry laugh. “So she has two faces and is unforgivable, but you’ll let Josh fuck you like he wasn’t just sticking his dick in her?”

Her eyes flared, and the skin on her throat became mottled. “Don’t talk like that. You sound so vulgar.”

“And you sound like Mom.” I bit off a big piece of toast and didn’t bother swallowing before speaking again. “Then again, why shouldn’t you? You’re basically following in her footsteps.”

“Why shouldn’t I? My mom was a victim. Your mom was a homewrecking slut.”

I jerked like I’d been slapped.

The undertone had always been there. My whole life, I’d heard it beneath the words my family said to me. But this was the first time anyone had said them outright.

My mom. Your mom. An important distinction that had been there all my life. No matter how good I was, how neat I kept my room, how respectful, self-deprecating, apologetic I was, I was never really one of them. There had always been and would always be an asterisk beside my name.

Samantha Blackwell*

*illegitimate offspring of Peter Blackwell and Tara Ann, a Las Vegas stripper and slut whom Marla Blackwell very kindly took into her home and raised like the child she never, ever wanted.

I’d spent so long trying to earn membership to a club that would never accept me. I was never Marla’s daughter.

I was a reminder.

Twisting away from her, I blinked back hot tears. “Why are you here?”