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Finally, he sighs, leaning back on the couch. He keeps his eyes straight forward when he speaks.
“My parents are in town. They arrived yesterday,” he starts. Glancing at me, he says, “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors. About my… paternity.”
I nod.
“My legitimacy as a Harrington was called into question when that article came out. It’s a question I didn’t have an answer to. At least not until yesterday, when I finally spoke to my mother.” He smiles suddenly, but it’s a sad smile, laced with pain. “You know I’ve always hated the color of my eyes. Every other Harrington—my grandfather, my father, my brother, hell, even my mother—they’ve all had brown eyes. I was the only exception.”
“Genetics aren’t always black and white,” I venture. “The color of your eyes doesn’t mean you don’t belong.”
Sterling looks at me then, his eyes softer than I’ve ever seen them. It hurts that he hates something so immensely beautiful. If only he could see what I see.
“I wish someone could have told that to a six-year-old boy wondering why he looked different. I wish my family could have acted better. Instead they fostered those doubts, made it abundantly clear that I wasn’t meant to be in my position. It made me work harder to be better. I’ve lived my life with the underlying fear that my family could throw me out for being different. That I didn’t belong.”
My heart aches at his words. Sterling and I, we’re two sides of the same coin. We could even be on the same side, balancingourselves against the weight of the life and experiences we had no choice but to be a part of.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt like I belonged anywhere, either. Not when I lived with my mother. And especially not now. I found the most wonderful, kind, and supportive family. But the truth is, they had each other before. No matter how hard they try to deny it, they were together for years and I disrupted it. I’ll always feel like an outsider and it’s awful.
No one should have to feel like that.
CHAPTER 16
Sterling
“They all knew.”
The words come out in a pained whisper. It’s amazing how the walls I try to build tend to crumble around this woman. A couple of hours ago, the only thing I felt was numb because I had no idea how I was supposed to feel. And now it’s like I can feel everything. The hurt, the anger, the disbelief.
I don’t know why Emilia’s the only one with the ability to do that. To draw all these emotions out of me. But she is, and that’s probably why I called her. Selfish as that action was, I needed her.
“Who?” she questions gently, her eyes filled with so much sympathy and kindness it hurts to look at.
“Everyone. My entire family,” I clarify. “They all knew the truth and they kept it from me.”
My jaw tightens as I think about every single thing my mother told me. She said it all with a blank face and a tone that suggested that it was water under the bridge. Because to them, it was. I’m the only one that has to deal with this new truth. With my new reality.
Harringtons can be so fucking cruel. Even the best of us, my father, hid everything from me.
“What’s the truth, Sterling?”
I exhale a heavy breath. “My mother had an affair. Or as she called it, ‘a mistake.’ One night after a couple of drinks, she accidentally slept with someone she shouldn’t have, and that led to me. She found out she was pregnant and she could have kept that hidden, but because she and my father have such a wonderful relationship,” I say bitterly, “she told him what happened. And he forgave her. Told her that he’d raise the child as his own. That my actual father didn’t even have to know. It all came to light eventually, though. Grandfather found out. It was a whole issue but they got their shit together, I guess. All parties came to an understanding and life moved on. The end.”
Emilia’s brow furrows. “I don’t understand.”
I chuckle darkly. “That’s exactly how my mother told me the story. I had a hard time understanding as well. But according to her, what happened in the past doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Respectfully, that’s bullshit,” Emilia states. “What about you? Your feelings?”
“My family isn’t really big on feelings,” I explain. “I was raised to handle things robotically, stoically.”
“Again, bullshit. Human beings aren’t robots. You’re not a tin man.”
“Thought you said I was one.”
“You don’t have to be,” she says quietly. “You can learn not to be.”
“I don’t know if I can,” I murmur.
“What else did your mother say?” Emilia questions. “Did she tell you who your real father is?”