“Here,” he says, holding it out to me on the palm of his hand. His face is impossible to read, a closed book with no cover, no title, no hint of genre. All that’s discernable there is that he has a story to tell, that he’s a book worth cracking open. “Burn it.”
“Burn it?” I repeat, feeling that hollowness inside of me echo with anger. How dare she?! How dare she tear me away from everything I’ve ever known and completely upend my life then have the audacity to hate me for my feelings toward her? It isn’t right; it isn’t fair.
Then again, nothing in life is fair, is it? It isn’t fair that Saffron’s baby—the real Dakota Banks—died. And it isn’t fair that Tess had her child stolen away because of it. It isn’t fair to the Banks who raised me and loved me and taught me so many things to lose me. It isn’t fair that I somehow got caught in the middle of it all.
Burning Tess’ manuscript won’t change that. Besides, she might enjoy writing on a typewriter for novelty’s sake, but surely she has other copies of the book? Only an idiot or a narcissist would write a single paper copy and leave its integrity up to chance.
I look from the lighter to the manuscript, and I wonder. I wonder if this really is Tess’ only copy. I wonder what she’d do if I burned it. I wonder what she’d do if she knew that I read it.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask Parrish, and he frowns at me, like he’s absolutely furious somehow. At me or at Tess, I’m not sure. Maybe with himself? It’s impossible to tell. I turn all the way around to face him, absently playing with the diamond tennis bracelet around my left wrist. The sun hits the metal heart pin that’s attached to my book bag, reminding me of yet another one of Tess’ random gifts, of her secret birthday letter that was essentially an antonym of the novel she planned to publish for the whole world to read. “You always choose Tess over yourself.”
My words seem to have a strange effect on Parrish. His brown eyes darken substantially, and he looks away, his jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around the lighter.
“Just take it before I change my mind,” he growls at me, but I can’t do it. I can’t seem to move from that spot. I don’t care about Tess. At least … I told myself I didn’t care about Tess. What does it matter if some random woman likes me or not? Only, she isn’t just a random woman. And she isn’t just my bio mom. She’s a woman who carried me for nine months, who gave birth to me, who raised me for two years until I was stolen, a woman who never stopped searching, a woman whose love for me didn’t seem to be able to be questioned.
Now that I’ve lost it, I’m not even sure where to go from here.
With a huff and a sigh, Parrish pockets the lighter just in time for Tess to pop her head into the room. She doesn’t look very happy.
“Is that my manuscript?” she asks, choking on the words as she steps inside, her eyes going from the trash can to my face, to Parrish’s. He turns toward her, his expression something I’ve never seen around Tess before: disappointment.
“I didn’t want her here at first, but I do now,” he says, taking the lighter back out of his pocket and chucking it in the can beside the stack of papers. “It seems like you’re of the opposite opinion? You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Without another word, Parrish turns and leaves my room, closing his bedroom door behind him and leaving me alone with Tess Vanguard formerly Tess Patterson, mother of Mia Patterson who, apparently, is me.
I am Mia Patterson.
“Dakota,” Tess starts, the name foreign on her lips, some curse in another language that she doesn’t understand but for the distaste it leaves as it rests on her tongue. “Did you read this?”
“I read enough of it,” I say, because I don’t care what else is in that book. The part that I just read was written today. Today. I know I haven’t been the easiest person in the world to get along with lately, but I’ve tried. I went along with the birthday celebration even though I felt sick the whole time. I went along with the talk show even though it turned into a monumental disaster. Tess won’t let me talk to my family back home; I had to sneak out just to see my sister for coffee, and now I’ve lost even that.
I hate all of this. I hate it.
The silence between us is more than enough of an answer.
