The Inheritance by Zelda Reed Read Free Book Online Page B

saved me. Panic, sadness, rage, and sickness swirled beneath my ribcage, behind my chest, and under my skin.
    I couldn’t go home in that condition, my father would never have it; I plopped down on the bottom step, waiting for Justin to “finish”.
    Sasha caught me sitting there, my back hunched over my knees, sobs wracking through my body. Carefully, she stepped past me, not a word or look shot my way. Stinking of sex and sweat she walked out the front door, one pink sock on, the other balled in her hand.
    Justin refused to leave the second floor landing. Arms crossed over his chest he said, “What are you still doing here?”
    I looked over my shoulder. “I thought we were gonna have lunch.” It was a pathetic response and if I could go back in time, I would smack some sense into myself.
    “We’re not having lunch,” he said.
    “Why not?”
    Justin sighed. “What are you not getting about all this? Jesus, Caitlin, you caught me fucking another girl. How clearer do I need to be?”
    I stood up, wiping at my eyes with the back of my hand. “You wanted me to catch you fucking her?”
    He ducked his head. “I think you should go.”
    In a fit of rage, I stormed up the stairs, my entire world bleaching into white.
    “I don’t remember much after that,” I say to Neal, a pathetic smile pulling at my lips.
    “Shit,” is all he can say. Then his hand is on my knee. “Hey, you wanna get out of here?”
    “Are you asking me to ditch my own father’s repass?”
    He smiles. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
    I throw a look over my shoulder. Darlene’s picking her son off the couch, placing him on her hip as her husband stands behind her. Ashleigh’s near the kitchen, face in her hands as the blue-haired women gently pat her hair between sips of wine. Gina’s on the porch, smoking with a gaggle of wives, well-dressed, bored and talking shit about their husbands.
    Neal raises an eyebrow, awaiting my response.
    “Sure,” I say, finishing my drink. “Let’s go do something fun.”

Seven
     
    I’ve always been a little obsessed with other people’s idea of fun. Growing up with a father who rarely smiled will do that to you.
    My father’s idea of fun was a night out with “the boys”. Grey-haired and wedding bands tight around their fingers, they knocked back glasses of scotch until they were stinking of alcohol, ready to terrorize whoever’s driver was in charge of them that night. My mother’s a knitter, a television watcher, a talker. She and her friends buy meat and cheese trays from the grocery store and sip iced tea while watching whatever soap opera is on at ten a.m.
    My idea of fun is constantly shifting. One year it’s going out to a bar and talking until the bartenders kick us out. The next it’s getting up early in the morning for a good run before sucking down an expensive cup of coffee. It fluctuates, like I’m sure it’s supposed to at twenty-five.
    Neal’s idea of fun involves holding my hand the second we step into the elevator. “Gotta keep up appearances,” he says, but Suzanne and Justin are still in the condo.
    The doors open to the lobby and we pass the man at the front desk who asks, “Are you two with the Wheeler party?”
    “Yes,” I say.
    “Be careful out there.” He motions towards the door. “There’s press all up and down the street.”
    I’ve almost forgotten about them, the vultures in waiting.
    Neal pulls a pair of sunglasses from his jacket. Aviators with dark green lenses and a gold frame. They’re expensive and stylish and make him all the more handsome. “Thanks,” he says, and leads me towards the revolving door.
    “Shouldn’t we go out the back?” I say, tugging on his hand.
    He throws me a grin. “If you think the press doesn’t have every exit covered, you’re very naive. We’ll look better going through the front, then trying to sneak out the back like we’re doing something wrong.”
    We are leaving my father’s repass early, but the