The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(86)

I swing around and look at Gigi.

Never—ever—have I seen her face those shades of red and angry.

“We agreed we would never speak of this,” Gigi says. “Phoebe has a future because of me, and you’re trying to throw it all away.”

“Phoebe has a leash because of you.”

Oh my God.

She’s serious.

Tavi grabs my hand, and I realize I’ve gasped. Carter leans in close, like he wants to hug me but doesn’t know how.

“We are so fucked up,” he mutters.

My whole body is numb.

Brain? Numb.

Legs? Numb.

Mouth? Numb.

Lungs?

I don’t even know if I have lungs.

Is anything real?

Is anything not a lie?

Who am I?

“Phoebe.” Mom claps her hands. “Octavia and Carter too. Chop-chop. We’re leaving.”

I stare at my father again.

My father?

Not my father?

What makes a man a father? It’s not like he was there for my school functions or family dinners. He wasn’t there for my high school graduation. My college graduation.

Because he knew I wasn’t really his?

Or because he’s a shitty father?

All those things he did for Tavi but not for me—oh my God.

“Phoebe, you’ll stay exactly where you are, and nothing will change,” Gigi announces.

Carter growls softly. “She’s such a fucking asshole.”

“Where do you want to go?” Tavi asks me. “Name it. We’re there. Like, yesterday.”

Oh my sweet holy Oprah.

I’m not a Lightly.

I’m not a Lightly.

And that’s what does it. That’s what makes me snap.

I rise.

“Finally,” my mother says. “Hurry up, dear. It’s a private plane, but I’d still like to get on it posthaste.”

Gigi squares her shoulders and lasers in on me. “Phoebe Sabrina Lightly, if you walk out that door . . .”

“I’m not a Lightly,” I whisper.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You were raised a Lightly, and no one beyond this room will ever—”

“Shut up, Gigi,” I snap.

She sucks in a breath.

Tavi sucks in a breath.

“That’s my girl,” Mom says. “Now—”

“Shut up, Mom.”

I don’t know who I am.

Not because I’m telling people to shut up but because I don’t know who I am.

Nature versus nurture. Genetics versus environment. I was raised as a Lightly. I was born to be a Lightly.

But I’m not.

And after everything I’ve learned, everything I’ve realized here in Tickled Pink, finding out my father isn’t my father is the cherry on the who are you? sundae.

“Phoebe, if you walk out that door—”

I don’t listen to the rest of whatever Gigi feels she has to say to me, because it doesn’t matter.

Look what she did to Uncle George.

She abandoned him for a lot less than being the illegitimate kid of a daughter-in-law that she never liked.

I’m not a Lightly.

I’ve never been a Lightly, no matter the fact that I believed for my entire life that my sole purpose was one day walking in the footsteps of my great-grandfather.

When he’s not actually my great-grandfather at all.

I could walk back into the cafeteria, play along, and be a Lightly.

The question is, Do I really want to?

And if I don’t . . . who will I be next?





Chapter 30


Teague


Bridget took off with Shiloh for a day of clothes shopping first thing this morning, and I have no idea if Phoebe’s still pissed at me, so I do what seems like the safest thing to do after taking care of my goats, and I head to the lake.

I’m about to hop in my boat and shove off when the sound of shoes crunching over the gravel near the pull-in catches my attention.

Phoebe’s found me.

She’s in a sundress and a short jacket, with flats on her feet, sunglasses on her face, and all her hair swept up under a bandana that would make Bridget look like she was planning on spending the day with her hands buried in cupcake mixes, but on Phoebe, it looks like she’s just using it as one more place to hide a weapon.

I brace myself. “Morning, sunshine.”

“Does this thing have a second seat?” She nudges my boat with her toe, keeping her hands in her jacket pockets.

“If I say yes, are you getting in?”

“Yes.”

“If I say yes and you get in, are you planning on murdering me and dumping my body out there?”

“No.”

She’s pale.

Too pale.

Her shoulders are shrunken in, her eyes are hidden behind her sunglasses, and she keeps pulling one hand out of her pocket to lift it to her mouth, then snatching it back down, like she wants to bite her nails but has been trained better.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s very, very wrong.

Good morning to you too, protective instincts. “Bring your own lunch?” I ask.

“No.”

“All right then.” Boat’s half in the water, so I wade out and flip the extra seat up. Bridget doesn’t come out with me near as much as she used to, but I still keep her seat at the ready. Just in case. “Climb on in.”