For some reason I can't pinpoint, disappointment fills my chest.
Maybe it's because the whole Becca and baby situation doesn't feel so suffocating when I talk to her.
It's been kind of...nice.
I'm not ready to let go of that yet, so I clear my throat and say, “My name is Preston.”
She looks me up and down. “Yeah, I know. It makes sense. You have that whole snobby and entitled thing going for you.”
She ignores my dirty look and swings her legs over the hood. I try not to chuckle as I watch her short limbs dangle a few inches above the ground. “So, Preston. Why the fuck are you wearing a suit?”
At that, I do laugh. “I'm a business major at Yale.”
Her gaze is calculating. “I'm a business major myself, but that still doesn't explain anything. Not unless you were at an internship, and considering it's the weekend—”
“I went to a casino tonight. I like to wear suits when I gamble.”
She cocks her head to the side. “Awe, does it make you feel all grown up and important?”
I flash her some teeth and dimple. “Nah, baby. What's under the suit makes me feel grown up and important.”
Her expression twists in disgust. “Ugh, did you really just call me baby and refer to your” —she sweeps a hand up and down— “male anatomy in the same sentence?”
“Wasn't aware my male anatomy was so offensive. Never had any complaints before.”
I want to kick myself when pain flickers across her face again. I don't know why it bothers me to see her upset, just that it does. “I'm sorry.”
When she looks down at her shoes, I say, “My favorite color is green because it's the color of money. I have a five-inch scar on the back of my head that's covered by my hair. And I can add, multiply, and divide a set of numbers in my head quicker than it takes most people to process a solitary sentence.”
She freezes. “What's 5,528 times 6,623?”
I blink. “36,611,944.”
She pulls out her phone. “Divide that number by 26,500.”
“1,381.” I hold up a finger. “.58279245283.”
She looks down. “Holy shit, you're like Rain Man.”
I straighten my spine, feeling a weird combination of vulnerable and defensive. “Contrary to what some of my doctors first thought when my teachers insisted that my parents have me checked out, I'm not mentally challenged and I'm not on the Autism spectrum.”
I look away, hating how candid I'm being. This entire conversation is stupid and I detest that I can't seem to keep my mouth shut around her. “No one knows why I have Hypercalculia, just that I do.”
I keep the fact that one doctor suspected a brain injury from some kind of childhood trauma to myself. Besides, my father covered his ass when he said that I might have taken a few accidental hits to the head because I grew up playing football with him and my older brother. Hence the scar.
His declaration couldn't have been further from the truth though. I hate the sport and the only time I don't is when I'm making money off it.
Chalk it up to just one more reason I'm a disappointment to Mr. Spencer Holden, former NFL quarterback turned powerful investor and NFL football team owner.
Also known as the man who abused me for years.
My own personal monster under the bed.
“It's really not a big deal. Aside from it being useful in math class and when I play a game of blackjack, it serves no purpose.”
“I think it's kind of cool,” she interjects. “Heck, I'd be charging people to ask me math problems.”
“I'm not a freak show,” I bark, harsher than I intended.
Her eyes widen. “Whoa, I never said you were.” When I don't respond, she shifts uncomfortably. “Why do you have a scar?”
“Why did your grandmother lock you up in a basement?”
Her lips purse. “Maybe we should rock—paper—scissor it.”
“Not gonna lie,” I tell her. “I'm trying really hard not to make an inappropriate remark. It's almost painful.”
To my sheer surprise, she laughs. “Well, just so you know, I'm choosing scissors. Given I'm a lesbian and all.”
I rear back slightly, too enthralled to be crestfallen at her confession. “Tou-fucking-ché, angry girl. I was going to make some lame joke about being harder than a rock, but bravo.”
“Thank you,” she says, taking a mock bow. “Now in exchange for me one-upping your perverted ass, tell me something you've never told anyone else before.”
“My—” I stall, considering my next statement carefully. I had no intention of telling her, but now I find myself wanting to. And technically I've never told anyone about it, so I suppose it qualifies. “My father is the reason for my scar.”
She frowns. “What happened?”
“One day when my older brother Asher was nine and I was seven—” Her face scrunches at the mention of his name, but I continue. “Asher said he was too tired to go to football practice, and my dad went postal. He grabbed his head and kept ramming it into the coffee table. Asher's eye was inching closer to the corner of it with every hit and I knew I had to do something, so I moved it away. Unfortunately, I wasn't strong enough to move it entirely and it still ended up hurting him, but fortunately, it missed his eye.”
A lump fills my throat. “Later that night after Asher was all stitched up and everyone went to sleep...my father dragged me out of bed and did the same thing to me. Only he slammed the back of my head into the corner of the table repeatedly, even after I started bleeding all over the carpet. He told me he would stop if I apologized for getting involved, but I refused. He was hurting my brother and I wanted to protect him. To this day, I still remember the way the wood pounded my skull over and over while I cried. I'd never felt something so painful before.”
Except what came after.
Affliction crosses over her pretty face and she trembles. “Oh my God, Preston. That's horrible. No one ever suspected anything? Not that it's your fault, but you never told anyone? A teacher? School nurse?”
I shake my head. “I couldn't.”
“Why?”
I look at her and our gazes clash. “Probably for the same reasons you never told anyone about your grandmother locking you in a basement.”
There's a moment between us then, and even though no words are exchanged, I don't think I've ever seen someone as clearly as I see her.
“My father is an ex NFL quarterback turned sports team owner and investor. He has the money to get away with just about anything.”
She breaks eye contact. “There's nothing worse than when a person makes you feel powerless and you can't tell a soul about it.”
“No, there isn't.”
She brushes a strand of hair away from her face. “I—uh. I've fallen in love with approximately forty-nine people since I was fifteen.”
My brain rapidly concludes it's almost ten people a year, but I ignore that because I'm a little taken back by her confession. Or rather, why she's telling me this. “I don't—”
“All of them were women.” Her expression shuts down. “It's why she punished me...she hates that I'm gay.”