Torn Hearts (Hearts #1.5) by Claire Contreras

Author:Claire Contreras [Contreras, Claire]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B012D9R9J0
Published: 2015-07-21T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Six

Present

Jensen

I NEVER KNEW my father. I knew of him, but never knew him, not even by name. It wasn’t until the eve of my thirteenth birthday that I discovered his first name. That night, when any of the other mothers I knew would have been packing up their kid’s gift into a bag, she was packing up her suitcase. I walked into her room because I heard a noise and thought maybe she’d fallen. She was a heavy drinker, and while most of the kids in my class wore bags under their eyes because they’d stayed up late playing video games, I had them because I was usually holding her auburn hair out of her face while she threw up. Teachers called me irresponsible for forgetting my homework most days, and I didn’t have the heart to tell them that I did it on the bathroom floor most nights, and my mother’s puke often ended up smeared all over it.

I wasn’t a bright kid like Oliver, or well-to-do like Victor. I didn’t excel in sports like Junior, but I had heart, and that can go a long way. Often times I woke up after two hours of sleep and studied, just to prove to my mom that I, too, could get good grades. I joined the baseball team and mowed the lawn for our neighbors, thinking those things would earn her respect. But that night, when I caught her packing her bags, and she turned to look at me, her gray eyes going wide when she saw me standing by the door, I realized none of those things mattered to her. They never would.

“Why aren’t you sleeping, Jens?” she asked, her words slightly slurred.

“What are you doing?” I asked quietly as I watched her hands stop in her bag.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she replied in a cry. “I can’t stay here and pretend I know how to mother when we both know I don’t. I can’t . . . you look too much like him. The older you get, the more you look like him. I don’t want to . . .” she paused, sniffling. “I don’t want to hate you.”

“You’re leaving?” My voice cracked. The doorknob was rattling in my shaky grip.

“Only for a little while. I just need time to clear my head,” she said. “Archer set us up. I’m splitting the account two ways—that way you get what you’re owed too.”

“Archer?” I whispered, trying to focus on blinking the tears filling my eyes.

“Your . . . father.”

“You mean my donor,” I said. “That’s what you call him. My donor.”

“Well, he isn’t here, is he?” she spat, narrowing her eyes. “He promised me the world, impregnated me, and threw money at me to quiet us. Well . . . I can’t do it anymore. I can’t do it anymore.” She was wailing now, burying her face into her hands as her hair curtained her face. I stared at her, at the bag on the bed, at her room, at the floor.

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