Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 162520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
“Is that…?” I glance from Rocky to the oil canvas. It’s a family portrait. A family of five. In formal wear, they’re seated on a couch—the same baroque patterned wallpaper of this musty parlor is behind them.
A honey-brown-haired woman with kind, gentle eyes holds a tiny rosy-cheeked baby on her lap. He wears a little tux, but it’s his laugh, shared with the two young boys squished beside the woman, that pangs my heart.
On the other end of the couch is a man who I’m now certain is Rocky’s father. I look between my boyfriend beside me and the man in the frame. They’re the spitting image of each other: the razor-edged jawline, the tunneling gray eyes, the slender nose, even the commanding way he sits, the protectiveness as his arm reaches behind his sons.
I can’t even say this is an older version of Rocky. Christian Wolfe looks around his late twenties. About the same age.
I wait for Rocky to speak.
He just crumples the cloth into a ball and tosses it aside. I’m about to prod, but the walls creak. A mirror suddenly slides off its nail.
Rocky catches it before it can shatter on the floor. His superstitious self must be breathing an internal sigh of relief. Externally, he looks ready to punch a fist in the wall. “This place is definitely haunted with the ancestors of my past.”
I’m…unsettled. “That’s really creepy.”
“This is seriously too creepy for you?” He raises his brows at me. “The girl who likes possessed dolls?”
“Possessed dolls are cute with their single tufts of hair and droopy eyes.” I go to a stack of cardboard boxes.
“Cute,” he deadpans, then sees me ripping off tape. “We don’t need to go through those.”
“Scared to find a black cat?” I tease.
He gives me a middle finger. “Seriously, don’t waste your time, Phebs.”
“What if there’s a photo album in here? You wouldn’t want to find baby pictures?” I motion to the portrait to indicate that baby in the painting is him.
He stares harder at me. “It’s not the family I’m trying to protect.” He points at the oil canvas. “They’re gone. But my sister, my brother, your brothers—they’re still here.” He points at me. “You’re still here.”
It swells my lungs. “And Jake,” I add.
He rolls his eyes. “Oh my God, and Jake, whatever the fuck.”
That is as good of an inclusion as any from Rocky. I let out an abrupt sneeze. “God, this dust.” We keep stirring it up.
Rocky skims the length of me. “You okay to breathe this shit in?”
Do not tense. “Why wouldn’t I be?” I pat the tape back on the box.
He rakes a hand through his dyed black hair. “Come here for a sec.” He goes to the couch. Cloth already off them, the green floral cushions are exposed. Rocky sits and extends his arm over the back…like his dad in the portrait.
I blink away the image, then find myself instinctively beside him. Turning toward him, I lift my stiff shoulders. “We shouldn’t be hanging out. We only have an hour left—”
“Phoebe.” He collects my hand in his.
My stomach is in knots. We’ve been on the precipice of this conversation. The one where he nudges deeper for answers about why I’m acting so aloof. Weird. Standoffish.
I don’t know what to say anymore. Because I can’t tell him Hailey’s pregnant. I can’t even allude in that general direction without feeling like the worst friend on planet Earth. Which is why my default has been to deflect suspicions from her.
It was an instinct. A knee-jerk reaction.
Now, deflecting is beginning to feel like deceiving.
I regret throwing suspicion toward me to begin with. I shouldn’t have acted like I could’ve been ill in the bathroom with her. I shouldn’t be avoiding alcohol with her. But I feel like I’m in so deep, and I don’t know how to get out without sharing news that’s not mine to share.
I suck. I really suck. Maybe I’m not meant to be anyone’s real girlfriend.
“Look at me,” Rocky breathes, his voice quiet and more caring.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
I squeeze his hand, staring at his knuckles. “Please.” It comes out agonized.
“Whatever’s going on with you, you can tell me.”
I can’t. I open my mouth, then close it. I swallow a boulder in my throat.
The dead quiet hurts my ears. So I finally look up at Rocky.
He works his jaw, his eyes full of apprehension and rage. “Is it Trent?”
“What?” My stomach curdles, realizing where his brain might be. I…I didn’t think he’d jump to that conclusion.
“Did Trent corner you? Like at the Alps.”
“You don’t think he would’ve gloated to his best friend, i.e., you, if he did?” My frown deepens.
“He also knows you’re my ex-wife.”
“Greater reason to shove it in your face—”
“Did he?”
“No,” I answer quickly, then try not to cry, realizing how patient Rocky has been with me. He didn’t want to force me to open up if I wasn’t ready. Because he thought maybe I was assaulted. “No, it’s nothing with Trent.”