Page 80 of Faking It
“What happened to pink?”
“By the time I was into purple, I was long over pink.” I laugh. “Then I think I wanted to be a mommy.”
“Still very plausible.”
“In time.” I nod and smile. “And next was wanting to be the next Jane Goodall. The lady who studies chimpanzees in the forests of Africa.”
“Loves animals and travel. Check.”
“Then I decided I wanted to be a king. I was sick of being bossed around. Forget the helpless princess thing.”
“Let me guess, you were sick of waiting for your prince to come?”
I snort. “More like I was sick of being told I needed a prince. My mom . . . she’s a hopeless romantic.”
“And you have something against romance, I take it?”
“No. Yes.” I shrug and laugh softly. “I don’t know.”
“What? Tell me?”
“Even after my dad left when I was little, she still believed in the fairytale. In the notion that there’s a prince out there for everyone. In the idea that love conquers all. It always confused me since I’d seen her get hurt time and again. Why believe so much in something when it continually brings you misery?”
“I suppose it’s different for everyone.”
“Yeah, well, after seeing it a few times I decided I was going to control my own fairytale—”
“Be the king?”
“Yep. I wanted to be the one who could make all the decisions when it came to my life, not leave my happiness up to someone else.”
“Hence where you get your zeal to tell it like it is.” He pats his hand over his heart and this time when he puts it down—the smile broad on his face—he places it ever so casually atop my knee.
“Off with their heads,” I say in my best British accent.
“Careful there, Cinder . . . I come from a place that was once a colony of your kingdom, my liege.” He squeezes my leg. “What else did that creative mind of yours want to be?”
I fall silent and look back to the skyline. “I had a modeling scout approach me at a mall. Tell me I should do headshots. My mom thought it was a scam but I begged her to let me do it. I got my first job a few weeks later. It was a runway show—small time stuff—but there was something about the feel of it that just . . . I don’t know . . . ” I shrug, feeling silly and strangely vulnerable.
“You don’t know what?”
“It’s silly really.”
He knocks his knee against mine. “Tell me.”
“It made me feel loved.” I clear my throat, hating that I suddenly feel exposed. “I know it was the clothes I was wearing that people were applauding, but for this girl who no one took notice of . . . who’s dad didn’t think she was important enough to stay around and watch grow . . . it just, it made me feel like I was worth something. And yes”—I hold up my hand to stop him from speaking—“before you say you shouldn’t find your self-worth in others’ opinions of you, I know that. Back then though, that modeling job was the start of me getting my feet under me. It was the moment where I could have stayed where I was, who I was, or I could be the person I wanted to be.”
“All I was going to say was that I get it,” he murmurs. “I understand. My family . . . Christ, my family was a hot mess. Sure my parents were together forever, but when you live under the drunken haze of alcohol, it makes everything more tolerable . . . for everyone except the people who live with you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. They preferred their vodka over their son and god forbid if he came in between the two.” My heart lurches in my chest for the little boy who grew up in that situation.
“Is that why you came to America?”
“One night . . . shit, one night, when I was fifteen, my dad raised his usual hand to me and for the first time, I fought back. Things changed after that. Their fighting grew worse, their drinking became heavier . . . and I couldn’t do anything right anymore.”
“Zane . . .”
