The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(40)
“I can’t imagine that’s anything we want to hear about right before we eat,” says Shannon.
Graham’s head turns toward her, his jaw locked tight. It’s embarrassing to have a witness to all this, but I’m used to it, so I ignore her.
“It went really well—” I begin.
“Let’s go into the dining room,” Shannon cuts in. “Dinner’s ready.”
My father winces but follows her to the formal dining room, where a glass of wine sits at each place. People claim that when you’re pregnant, the things you’re not supposed to have don’t appeal to you, but I’ve never wanted a drink more in my life.
“So, congratulations, Karl, on beginning law school,” Shannon says, raising her glass once we’re all seated. “And I suppose we need to congratulate Keeley and Graham, for as long as it lasts, anyway.”
Graham stiffens, then lowers his wine. “Excuse me?”
“You do know what we call her, right?” Shannon asks, and something sinks in my stomach. Here we go.
“Shannon—” my father begins quietly.
“The baby bolter,” Shannon continues. “It’s from this Nancy Mitford novel…the Bolter is this woman who bolts from one man to the next, just like Keeley’s mother did. And we call Keeley the baby bolter because she never sticks with anything or anyone for long either.”
I’m used to this nickname. I barely notice anymore, but I hate that Graham is hearing about it. I hate that it’s probably reinforcing every negative thing he’s ever thought about me himself.
“She’s stuck with medicine for eight years now,” Graham says. His voice is sharp—a warning.
“She stuck with school,” Shannon corrects, turning to me. “You’ve only been at that job for a few months, right? If the boredom hasn’t set in yet, it will.”
“Shannon,” my father begs quietly, but goes no further in my defense. He couldn’t stop her anyway, and she’d manage to find fault no matter what I did.
If I’d chosen to leave med school, I’d have been a quitter, but I stayed and yet I’m still a quitter. I could remain with Beverly Hills Skin for a decade, and when I finally moved on, Shannon would say, “I knew that wouldn’t last.” But she’s also…right. I don’t like my job and would leave if I could and even if I could list a thousand reasons why, I also know how little that means. Every time my mom dumped someone, every time she decided a job just wasn’t working for her anymore, she had a whole list of reasons. Maybe mine are no more valid than hers.
I stare at my plate, feeling leaden, and quietly pick up my fork, preparing to ignore what’s been said and just get through the night.
But Graham’s hand lands on top of mine, telling me not to. I look up to find his shocked gaze on me, and I worry he’s just seeing me through Shannon’s eyes—all my gross irresponsibility, my genetic ineptitude.
“I’m not putting up with this,” he says quietly. “And neither are you.” He rises, tugging my hand to join him. “My wife, a doctor, has been in the same field for eight years. And, as I believe I mentioned, she’s my wife, so in the future, I’d suggest you keep the nicknames and comments to yourself. Which you might want to do anyway, Shannon, because they make you look petty…and jealous.”
He pulls me out of the room, his fingers wound tight in mine, and I allow myself to be led, stumbling and shocked until he’s got me bundled inside the Volvo.
I can’t believe we just left when dinner had barely begun. Even more than that, I can’t believe he did it to defend me.
“I’m sorry,” he says, once we’re both inside the car. “But she shouldn’t be allowed to treat you like that, and you shouldn’t be allowing it, either. I mean, what the hell, Keeley? If I casually suggest you try eating vegetables, I’m waiting for a knife to be thrown, but you let Shannon say whatever she wants.”
“You know why I’m a doctor?” I ask him with a sad laugh. “Because on her deathbed, my mom said she wished she’d gone to medical school. And when I mentioned it later, Shannon said, ‘as if your mother could have stuck with anything that long’. How fucked up is that? I chose my career just to prove something to a woman I don’t even like, on behalf of a woman who’s dead, and it didn’t make a dent anyway.”
He reaches over the console to squeeze my hand. “Keeley, people do all kinds of things for the wrong reasons. You think you’re the only person who got a degree to prove something to a parent? It doesn’t take away from what you’ve accomplished, and you can’t allow her to take away from it. No matter whether you stay at that practice or not, you’ve achieved something many people aspire to and very few attain.”
A slow smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “You called me your wife in there.”
“Well, technically you are.” Two spots of color grace his cheekbones.
I decide to let it go. I decide not to tell him what I was thinking as it all went down: that he said it like someone who meant it. Like someone who cared. And for a moment I almost thought he did.
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