Cracked Kingdom (The Royals #5)(47)

“Your doc said not to fill your head with stuff, but I’m willing to tell you anything I know and you’re ready to hear. Do you need another refill?” I nod toward the vodka in her hand. I shouldn’t drink it but she might need it.

“No. I need a clear head for this. Lay it on me.”

“What do you want to hear?”

“Everything. I don’t know a thing about my past. My phone, my purse, and all my social media accounts are gone—if I ever had them in the first place. The stuff is my room is so new you can see the cardboard creases in the curtains. But here’s the weird thing, Easton. I can remember things like stores and directions and a few events from when I was younger. Like when Felicity first came to my room, I thought she was Kayleen O'Grady. We met in kindergarten. I remember having a music teacher by the name of Dennis Hayes. Felicity told me Kayleen moved away three years ago and Mr. Hayes got run out of town a year after because he turned out to be a pedophile.”

I stiffen. “Are you saying you think you were one of Mr. Hayes’ victims?”

“No.” She waves a hand. “I looked that up online at the library. He was having an affair with a seventeen-year-old student, which is wrong, obviously.”

I relax at that news and sort through the other stuff. “Do you remember your family?”

She runs a finger along the scar on the underside of her wrist. “Some. I remember going to Parker’s wedding. I remember doing small things with Dylan like braiding her hair or playing with her Legos. I read to her sometimes…” She trails off, still rubbing the scar. “Sometimes we’d fight. I can’t remember what we fought about, but I recall yelling at each other.”

Hart had said that her sister had extreme moods, which reminded me a little of myself. I’d been diagnosed with ADHD and for a while my mom made me take meds, but then the voices in her own head took up too much of her time and attention. I used booze and other pills to compensate. I guess I still do.

“But nothing in the last three years,” I guess.

“Definitely nothing in the last three years. I don’t even remember what happened here.” She holds up her wrist.

“I do.” My eyes drift to my vodka. What I wouldn’t give to down half a bottle, pass out and not have to tell Hart that her dad hurt her. But that’s a coward’s way out, and, for all my faults, I like to think I’ve never been a coward.

"I saw a picture of you on Instagram,” she says.

Her change in topic surprises me, but I recover quick enough. "Searching me up, are you?"

She doesn’t bother denying it. "Yes. You. Me. Felicity. My cousin Jeanette. I messaged her and she responded, but I decided not to read it.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because after running into you today, I decided I didn’t want to remember. My brain decided that I should forget about certain things and so that’s what I was going to do.”

“Was?”

“Yeah, was. Because forgetting about the past only works if we all have the same memory loss. You remember things. My sister remembers things. My parents remember things and all of your memories impact how you react with me today. Even Felicity and Kyle are motivated by something I did to them before.”

This makes sad sense to me. “Yes and no. I don’t know what Kyle’s deal is. If I had to bet, it’s because he’s getting something from Felicity. You and Kyle don’t know each other. You have zero classes together and you never hung out. You were busy. When you weren’t at school, you were working your ass off. Hell, sometimes you even skipped school to go work.”

“Really?”

“Really.” My gut is churning. The lies I told before, the sins I’ve tried to hide, they need to come out now. “Come here.” I crook my fingers.

“Why?” she asks, but she scoots close enough that our feet are touching.

“I’m gonna need to hold your hand to make it through this.” I’m not even joking, but I smile as much as I can so she doesn’t freak out.

I lay out my hands, palm up, and wait. She looks down at my hands and then up at my face, pondering what I’m about to share. When she slides her palms on mine, I feel a tremor in them. I close my fingers tight around hers, wishing it was more than her fingers that I was holding.

“I’m not a very good person,” I begin, trying to keep my gaze steady, trying to keep my eyes on hers, trying not to look away like a spineless candy-ass. It’s hard, especially because right now her eyes are soft and pretty and warm and at any minute they could turn cold with disgust. “I’m not a very good person,” I repeat. My hands are growing sweaty. Holding hers was a dumb idea. Why do I care so much? Why does it matter what she thinks of me? I let go, but she catches me and tugs me forward.

“Don’t.”

“Why not?” I say hoarsely.

“Because I’m gonna need to hold your hand to make it through this.” Her lips tilt up at the corner. She scoots closer until our legs are pressed from knee to ankle and our combined hands are in her lap. “I don’t want to know about the past if it hurts you. Don’t tell me if it hurts you. I think we’ve both been hurt enough to last a lifetime.”

I’d like for that to be true, but we’re not moving a step forward without me being straight with her. I gather my courage and start talking. About how I did Felicity dirty, agreeing to be her boyfriend and then treating her like a piece of trash the next day. About how I slept with my brothers’ girlfriends because they were the ultimate forbidden fruit. About how I had liked Ella because she reminded me so much of my mother and when she kissed me at the club, I knew it was to make Reed jealous and I played along because hurting people was fun for me. About how my mother killed herself and it was my fault.