CRAZY FOR YOU: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Material Girls Book 3)

by Sophia Henry

  Me: I’m in the waiting room. What’s going on?

  Louis: What? What are you doing here?”

  Me: What kind of uncle would I be if I missed my nephews’ birth?

  I expect another message from Louis giving me an update, but nothing comes. Bridget could be in the middle of pushing for all I know. Instead of wait on him, I contact the person who will give me all the details: Mom.

  “Z!” My brother’s voice echoes through the empty hallway.

  When I look up, he’s barreling toward me grinning like a lunatic. He grabs my shoulders and brings me in for a bear hug, but gets tangled up in the ribbon of a dozen balloons.

  “I hate you,” he says, carefully pulling a string from around his neck.

  “Least I could do,” I say thrusting the gifts at him. Instead of taking them from me, he slides his arm across my shoulders and guides me down a hallway.

  Damn.

  “I thought you were still in Detroit.”

  “I had to be here, man. I couldn’t miss your first—” I pause “—and second kid being born.”

  He laughs. “Thanks, Z. It means a lot to me.”

  “How’s Bridget doing?” I ask.

  “Great!” His eyes light up. “She’s doing really well! She’s gonna be so excited to see you.”

  Louis opens the door to Bridget’s room saying, “Look what the cat dragged in!”

  “Zayne!” I hear her say, but I can’t see her because Louis already slipped through the door leaving me covered by the mess of balloons.

  “It’s me!” I say, entering the room, and pulling the balloons in behind me.

  “That’s quite a display.” Her eyes look tired, but she’s cheerful for someone lying in a hospital bed hooked up to beeping machines with an IV hanging from her arm.

  Though my mom and Bridget’s parents are also in the room, I go straight for my sister-in-law first, since she’s the star of today’s show. When I get to her bedside, I lean over and place a kiss on her cheek. “Looks like you’re ready,” I say, eyeing the machines, now that I’m close up.

  “No turning back now. They gotta come out.”

  “Give me that mess,” Mom says, swooping in and taking the balloons and flowers from me. She shakes her head in disapproval as she walks them to the far corner of the room. “When are you two gonna grow up?”

  “My guess is never,” Louis says. “You know how immature Zayne is.”

  “I knew you’d make it,” she says, ignoring Louis and grabbing me in a bear hug. She presses kisses on both cheeks. “I knew you wouldn’t miss this.”

  “Good to see you, Ma,” I say, hugging her. “Where’s Dad?”

  “Art show in Miami, but he’ll be here tonight.”

  Just as I move over to greet Bridget’s parents, a nurse comes in. They’ve scheduled Bridget’s for a C-section, so everyone, except Louis, has to head to the waiting room. Mom chatters away nervously telling me the same story she told me when we spoke on the phone last week. The neighbors are building a “monstrosity” of a house that doesn’t fit into the aesthetic of the neighborhood and is going to stick out like a sore thumb. This is coming from the eclectic, free-spirit artist who’s known to paint murals on her garage door and change it out every few years or so. That doesn’t stick out at all.

  Four hours later, Bridget’s mom, who got to go back first, comes out to the waiting room, letting us know we can see the babies. When we enter the room, Bridget’s holding Cody or Ed, while Louis has the other little guy on his bare chest.

  “Dude! Why are you naked?” Is the first thing I ask.

  Bridget has her top off, but, I mean, she’s breastfeeding, and has a blanket thingy over the kid, covering everything. But Louis is a skinny guy with a flabby belly, and he needs to put his shirt back on or hit the gym.

  “It’s called Kangaroo Care, and it’s good for the baby,” Louis explains. It’s going to take me a while to get used to all the new jargon they’re going to throw at me, but I’m excited about it. Louis looks absolutely in love with his baby boy on his chest.

  “Does everyone have to take off their shirts to hold them?” I ask.

  “Zayne,” Mom slaps my arm. “Just hold your nephews.”

  “Both? At the same time? I ask. I rarely hold any babies at all, and now they want me to hold two at once?

  “Just sit down and shut up, brother. They aren’t going anywhere.”

  Louis places Cody in my left arm, then gets Ed from Bridget and puts him in my right. Mom and Louis snap multiple photos on their phones, and I’m laughing because both kids look like grumpy old men. They could start screaming at any moment.

  “Dad is gonna love this picture,” Mom says, still holding her phone up. When Cody starts screaming it’s over. Louis sweeps in and brings him over to his wife.

  “I think I’m better with one at a time,” I say, looking down at Ed. Now that I have him curled up against me, he’s not looking so angry. He’s the cutest little thing. My mind wanders off, wondering what it would be like to hold my own kids. And what the hell would happen to Emily’s “free spirit” stomach tattoo with a stretched belly?

  Going down that road of thinking is ignorant right now, because I’m the idiot who left her in Detroit after some of the best days of my life without a word.

  When Bridget start breastfeeding again, the mom’s buzz right in, but I take it as my cue to leave. I’ve just left the room when I hear Louis’ voice.

  “Dude!” He yells, which stops me in my tracks. “I just listened to a voice mail from EmVee freaking out wondering where you are. Did you leave without even telling her?”

  I shrug as if everything is cool. All of the Ambassador events are finished, so, technically, she didn’t need me there anymore. “When you sent the message saying Bridget was headed to the hospital, I high tailed it to the airport. She was probably still sleeping.”

  “You didn’t think to text her?” He asks. “Freaking her the fuck out by going MIA in Detroit seemed like a better idea?”

  He studies my face intently. I thought I’d done a fantastic job of masking the turmoil inside to put on a (genuinely) happy face to be here for the twins’ birth. I didn’t come home to overshadow the happiest day of my brother’s life with my fucking mental issues. Because our family is so close, Louis knew I wouldn’t miss it if I had the opportunity to be here.

  But he also knows something is up just by looking at me—he always does. Lying is never an option around him.

  “You didn’t, Zayne.” He says. It’s a statement, not a question. My gaze drops to the white, tile floor, unable to look him in the eye. When I don’t answer, he asks, “Did you fuck her? Did you fuck her and leave?”

  It’s not an easy question. Yes, I fucked her—but that’s not all it is with Emily. I want to wake up next to her for the rest of my life.

  “Answer me, man!” He yells, pushing my shoulder so hard I stagger backward. I deserve it, so I don’t even fight back.

  “It’s more than that,” I finally say.

  “Oh really? Then why is she calling me asking where you are? If It’s more, why the fuck didn’t you tell her you left?”

  “Because she deserves better than me, Zayne!” I snap back. “She’s this smart, successful, beautiful soul in a lifestyle I can never be part of again. I’ll never be the person she needs.”

  “You’re right, Zayne.”

  Surprised, I jerk my head up. His expression is a mix of exhaustion and sadness, and I feel horrible for doing exactly what I didn’t what to do—ruin the best day of his life.

  “You know I love you, Zayne, and I’ll always be here for you, but I can’t make you love yourself.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “If you can’t see the person that everyone else sees, there’s nothing any of us can do. And if you want to fuck up the one thing that’s made you the happiest you’ve been in years, there’s nothing I can do about that, either.”

  He turns around and slips through the door, returning to his
family.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Emily

  Charlotte

  In Detroit, I came up with grand plans about going straight to my parents’ house and confronting them about the secret I’ve held inside for almost ten years. It’s the only way to let go of shame and try to focus on healing. Surprisingly, I’m finally ready to initiate the first step in the healing process. I can’t live with the shame and anger anymore. My soul wants peace.

  My warrior spirit plummets with every weary step through the Charlotte airport. By the time I get to the baggage claim, I’m exhausted, defeated, and alone—and that’s not the state of mind I want to be in when I confront my parents. I wish Zayne were here to lift my spirits or give me the pep talk, but he’s not. He’s drowning in regret. I feel powerless because I can’t help.

  Instead of stopping at my parents’, I drive straight to my house, unlock the door, roll my suitcases past anything that might need my attention after a being away for a month, and head straight to my room. I shut down my phone, throw it on the dresser and crawl into bed, pulling the duvet over my head.

  And sleep for two days.

  “Mama?” I clear my throat and call out again, “Mama? Are you home?”

  “I’m in the office,” she answers.

  My stomach sinks, but I’m well rested and in a much better state of mind. I came here to face my fears and confront my parents, and I’m not going to back down—no matter how terrified I am.

  Taking a deep breath, I push the door open and reluctantly enter the office. Being inside a room I haven’t set foot in since I was thirteen years old, is unsettling. All the memories flood back. Good, bad, horrible.

  Sitting at Daddy’s desk sketching beautiful party dresses, pretending I had my very own fashion line at Commons Department Store. Scattering no less than a hundred Polly Pockets across the floor because I wanted to be close to Mama while she sat at the desk working from home. Annoying her with request after request until she stopped working, got on the floor, and played with me. Despite what I let on, it wasn’t all bad times with my parents.

  Until it was.

  This room, which holds so many uneventful, yet treasured, memories, is where I heard them talking—my father and the man who molested me at my thirteenth birthday party. He was a former Commons employee, though I couldn’t tell you his name. The company employees hundreds of people in Charlotte alone, and I barely knew a handful.

  This room is where I watched my father write a check and hand it to the man while uttering the most heartbreaking—soul-sucking—sentences anyone could ever imagine. “You won’t speak of this to anyone. As far as I’m concerned, it never happened. But you will never to set foot on any of my properties again, do you understand me?”

  This room is where my heart switched. Where I realized what a horrible person my father was—and my mother—because she didn’t stand up for me. She let my father make a deal with this man, as long as he kept quiet.

  About sexually abusing their daughter.

  Mama sits at the desk, her posture perfect as she taps on her laptop. She looks as she always does—the opposite of me. Hair meticulously styled, sheer makeup enhancing all of her natural beauty, a soft white sweater, and perfectly pressed gray pants, or, slacks as she would call them.

  She lifts her eyes to me, then rips her glasses off her face in surprise. “Emily? What brings you here?”

  “Are you busy?” I ask.

  It seems casual, but my voice shakes almost as much as my hands at my sides.

  “Nothing I can’t work on later.” Mama closes her laptop and leans back in her chair. “Is everything alright?”

  It’s obvious something is wrong, because I haven’t put myself in this position in almost ten years. I don’t visit my parents unless it’s a family event that I can’t get out of.

  “No,” I try to speak firmly, but it comes out in a cracked whisper.

  “Is it your job?” Her tone is stiff, someone looking for answers, not the concern of a mother. “Do you need money?”

  “No.” I close my eyes and shake my head quickly, dismissing her suggestion. I haven’t asked them for anything in years, why would she think that’s why I’m here now?

  Oh right, because she’s Cookie Commons—the woman who thinks everyone wants money as much as she does.

  My chest tightens as if I’m preparing to take a bullet for someone. The tension is so thick I could slice it with a butter knife.

  “Why didn’t you ask me to stay?” I blurt out. If I didn’t, I would have chickened out, turned around and walked out of this house of horrors.

  “Excuse me?” Her eyes narrow, as they do while she assesses the situation before she goes off on someone.

  “You let me move out of the house at fourteen without a word. Why?” I ask as pain shoots up my left arm. It’s one of the ways panic attacks manifest themselves in my body, but I have to ignore it and push through. “Why wasn’t I good enough to ask me to stay?”

  She rises slowly, answering with weighted words. “We thought letting you leave was the best thing we could do for you at the time.”

  “You thought letting your fourteen-year-old daughter leave was the best thing you could do for me?” I repeat. “Didn’t win mom of the year award at the country club that year, did you Cookie?”

  Surprisingly, Mama lets my snarky comment slide. It’s not like her to not snap back—especially at me.

  “Let me remind you that you left us, Emily. We didn’t kick you out. You left us.” Mama repeats making sure I hear the emphasis on who was at fault. But her tone isn’t as terse as it normally is. It’s desolate, defeated. “After a year of trying to figure out how to handle your constant anger and hatred for us, we decided to let you move out. We knew where you were going. We didn’t know what else to do.

  “One day you were fine, the next, you were screaming at us; picking fights over everything—and nothing. Instead of the bright, happy, free spirit we’d known for twelve years, you became sullen, depressed. You started hiding in your room, wearing all black, hanging out with a completely different crowd—kids we had never met before. You wouldn’t talk to us. Wouldn’t talk to a therapist. We were scared.”

  “I was angry,” I say softly.

  “I understand that, but it was anger unlike anything we’d ever seen, even after raising two teenage girls. We didn’t know how to handle it. If we gave you more freedom, you’d be out all night. If we grounded you, you’d sneak out. We—” She takes a deep breath and curls her fingers over the top of her chair. “We were scared. I remember the switch. It was right after you turned thirteen.”

  There’s a knot building in my chest as heart speeds up. She remembers, but she’s not going to acknowledge the reason?

  “You went from wanting to be a fashion designer for the stores to—" Mama turns to the window, releasing a deep breath as she stares out into the front yard. “—to denouncing the life your father and I raised you girls in. We’d go on vacation, and you’d scream at us for being selfish and using our money for frivolous things while people are starving. We’d hold a food drive at the stores or adopt a family for Christmas, and you’d accuse us of doing it to get a credit on our taxes.”

  She turns around to face me again.

  “We’re not perfect, Emily. We never claimed to be, but we always tried to do right by you girls—all of you girls. Whether you acknowledge our efforts or not.”

  Unlike Mama, not everyone is motivated by money. I didn’t need expensive vacations in exclusive resorts. I needed parents who had my back. Parents who would stand up for me, not throw money at sexual predators to make them go away. Out of sight does not mean out of mind.

  “Trying to do right by me? Is that what you call paying off the man who molested me?” I yell. She doesn’t get to be the victim here. I’m the victim. Or—I was—I consider myself a survivor now.

  “What?” Mama asks, seemingly surprised. But I’ve seen every different role she plays—inn
ocent, conniving, sweet, concerned. If she’d gone into acting, she’d have shelves overflowing with awards.

  “You and Daddy think everyone can be bought. But not me, Mama. I don’t give a shit about your money. I walked away for free.”

  “Emily, I need you to tell me what you’re talking about?” she comes around the desk, toward me, but I take a step back, keeping distance between us. “Who molested you? When did this happen?”

  “You’re going to pretend you don’t remember? Is it because you brush unpleasant events under the rug? Or because you never gave a damn about me in the first place?”

  Her jaw twitches, checking herself before speaking, probably trying to figure out the correct way to word what she says next. You’ve got to be careful when you try to manipulate someone’s memory. “Can you please start from the beginning, Emily. I swear on my Mama’s grave that I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I laugh. “Well, that sure makes me feel better. You hated your Mama.”

  A tear slides down her cheek. And another one after that. When she doesn’t try to wipe them away, I realize I may have gone too far.

  “I’m so—” I begin.

  “Emily Anne, will you please stop attacking me for one minute to tell me what’s going on?” Her voice shakes as she tries to keep her composure. “I will stand here and listen without saying a word.”

  I bite my lip, holding back tears and desperately wishing Zayne were here with me. He’s the one who helped me find the strength to do this. He convinced me to confront my past, so that I could move on with my future.

  I close my eyes and summon courage. “A man who used to work for the stores sexually assaulted me at my thirteenth birthday party. He put his—” I can’t continue because I can’t say it out loud. I squeeze my eyes shut, counting to five in my head to calm myself. “A week later, I stood outside this room and watched Daddy write a check and hand it to the man, telling him he’s to keep his mouth shut and never set foot on Commons property ever again.”