Page 169 of The Faking Game
I reach out and brush my fingers along his cheek. His skin is dry and a bit rough to the touch. He hasn’t shaved today, and I love the feeling against my palm.
His eyes close. I repeat the movement, trace up to his temple and to the scar in his eyebrow. “Your father thought he fixed the trust?”
“Yes.” West’s voice is tired, resigned, but he doesn’t shy away from my touch. “He and my mother married when they were in their mid-twenties.”
“I’m sorry you lost him. My father passed a few years ago, too.”
West’s whiskey eyes open. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Do you miss yours?”
“I think I hate him a little more with each year that passes. But yes. I still miss him.”
The raw honesty in the statement makes me smile. “I know the feeling,” I murmur. “What was he like?”
“He was godlike when I was a child.” West shakes his head a little. “Then he was a tyrant. Neither he nor my mother was made to be a parent. They weren’t made to be married to each other, either.”
“Your mother hasn’t mentioned him to me,” I murmur. “In our conversations.”
“My parents didn’t exactly have what I’d call a successful marriage,” he says.
“What was it like?” I asked.
“Well, when I was small, I thought they were in love. I suppose they were, in their own sort of way. It was all-consuming. Toxic. I was twelve when I discovered the first affair, thirteen when I told them about it. They shipped me off to Belmont shortly after.”
My fingers still on his cheek. “They didwhat?”
“I caught my dad out on the tennis court. So I went to my mom. Turns out she already knew.” He chuckles again, but it’s not a particularly happy sound. “She’d had affairs of her own, and she’djustmade up with my dad. It was inconvenient to have me around. I saw too much.”
“West… that’s awful.”
“Yeah,” he says, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “I suppose. But that was their marriage, and neither of them ended it because that wasn’t possible, either. Calloways don’t divorce,” he says, his tone wry. “Outwardly, they were great at it—the perfect, sparkling couple. I remember one of their anniversary parties. My mom went up and gave a beautiful speech to my dad. People were entranced. There were barbs threaded throughout that speech, of course. That was the way they used to play.”
“That sounds terrible,” I say. And relatable. I was young when my parents divorced, but I remember the fights too.
“During that speech, she wore a brand-new diamond necklace that her lover at the time bought her.”
“Oh my god,” I say.
He shakes his head a little. “It is what it is. But I never want to end up in that situation. To see someone turn resentful, angry—trapped.”
“You won’t.” I brush my hand over his jawline. He’s always been handsome. I knew that from the start, and now it’s so painful to me, just how much I love looking at him. Touching him. “For what it’s worth, I think you’d be a good husband.”
His eyes darken. “You do?”
“I’ve gotten to know you during these months, you know.”
West’s hands slide in under the camisole I’m wearing, brushing over the bare skin of my low back. “You didn’t like me for years. I’ve grown on you, then?”
I run my finger over his eyebrow. The scar there smooth after so many years. “Maybe.”
“Maybe, she says,” he mutters. “You’re harsh.”
“You like it when I’m harsh.”
“I do.”
I smile a little. “I think you might be the only person who does.”
