You Said I Was Your Favorite (Lancaster Prep Book 5) by Monica Murphy

Author:Monica Murphy [Murphy, Monica]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: EM Publishing
Published: 2023-10-18T18:30:00+00:00

TWENTY-EIGHT

ARCH

The sound of her sobs twists my insides into knots, and the moment I spot the darkened building up ahead with the giant parking lot surrounding it, I pull over, stopping in front of the breakfast house. I throw the car into park and undo my seat belt before I reach for hers and do the same thing.

When I haul her into my arms, she doesn’t protest. She goes willingly, somehow curling into my lap, her arms coming around my neck, her face buried against my chest. Her tears soak through the front of my shirt and I don’t even care. All I can do is stroke her hair and murmur reassuring noises, feeling helpless. Useless.

My family? We haven’t suffered much tragedy. We also don’t handle our emotions very well. As in, we don’t really show them at all. There weren’t a lot of ‘I love yous’ spread around my household and while we’re definitely not the coldest Lancaster branch that I know, we’re still pretty cold.

Emotionless.

Doesn’t help that my mother is British. Stiff upper lip and all the shit that comes with it. My father married a cold fish and man was he angry about it—enough to tell me all about his troubles last winter break, when he was drunk and they’d just gotten into a huge argument.

I was seventeen. The last thing I wanted to hear about was my father complaining how he never had sex with my mother anymore. That she felt the act was an obligatory duty and she gave him four children, so why is he protesting?

He’s had a few affairs—confessed to that too. Discreet indiscretions that didn’t amount to much, though he always made sure my mother found out. She never seemed to care, which infuriated him even more.

“All I want is acknowledgement,” said the very man who’s not very good at acknowledging any of his children. The irony.

Pretty sure my mother could’ve birthed him a dozen warrior sons and I don’t think he would’ve been pleased. Not fully. But we’re not the disappointment in his life.

Dear old mother is.

I don’t talk about that conversation, or our family troubles. Just like Daisy doesn’t talk about her mom or her emotions. She keeps them all stuffed deep inside, only letting them pour out this one singular day a year. When she can mourn the death of her mother that just so happened on her twelfth birthday.

That is some fucked-up shit. And so random. A brain aneurysm. One second you’re there, next second you’re gone, though I thought they at least got a warning sign with headaches and stuff. Not that I’m going to ask. If Daze wants to share any more details, I’m willing to listen, but she’s too busy crying currently to speak.

She’s still crying into my shirt and I tangle my fingers in her soft hair, resting my chin on top of her head as I stare out into the dark night. The clock on my dashboard says it’s almost eleven and I

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