Page 92 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

It’s a low blow, using my brother’s death against them this way, especially after everything my abuela told me about my dad and the terrible decision he was forced to make.

I know that. But that doesn’t make it any less true.

Because I know if the outcome hadn’t been a foregone conclusion, if it had instead been a simple matter of money standing between Jamie’s death and his survival, my parents would have moved the fucking earth to ensure the latter.

So, how can they possibly judge her for making that choice when they’ve been in Blondie’s shoes?

For several tense seconds, my parents are quiet.

My mother’s expression wilts like a dead flower, which only drives that knife of guilt in deeper.

I never wanted to cause her—cause either of them—distress with this ploy.

Shit, they were never even supposed to find out this whole thing with Blondie was fake, especially now that I have no intention of ending it.

As for everything else—all the pranks and bad behavior of the last four years—none of that was meant to hurt them, but to open their eyes to my pain.

To make them actually see me. To make them acknowledge the shared trauma we went through and how no one will fucking talk about it.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say that—to unleash all the years of pent-up resentment and anger.

To make them realize how this put-together facade they’ve enforced has only done me harm and hasn’t given me space to process my pain.

How I’ve spent these last four years alone with my grief because they refused to join me in it.

Because they slammed the door on it and threw away the key so no one else would see the reality of what our family has endured.

I consider explaining how Blondie and I started off as a lie but then became something real to appease them.

How I have been changed by her and become someone that I can almost be proud of.

Someone I think they would’ve been proud of, too, if they weren’t so focused on the destructive path that led me here.

I even contemplate telling them about the proposal if only to show them what I’m capable of. That I can be Hallazgo material if they’ll just let me try.

I want to say all that…but I don’t. Because the look in my father’s dark eyes—so like my own and yet, so distant—is enough for me to know there’s no point. His mind is made up. Nothing I say now will change it. My words will only fall on deaf ears.

“You have clarified her side of the story, but what of yours?” he finally says, and the finality in his tone sends a terrified shiver racing over my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

It isn’t a question—not really. He doesn’t want me to offer him an answer or an explanation.

He just wants to make it clear how much he thinks I’ve failed him. Failed our family.

Failed my abuelo.

“What excuse do you possibly have for yourself that isn’t just another lie?

” he continues. “If the media had caught wind of this, it would have been a disaster. Do you know how this looks?” He catches himself as his voice starts to rise, reeling his temper back in.

And as it fades, he seems to deflate, collapsing back in his chair as if weighed down by his ever present disappointment of me.

“We were foolish to think you had matured, that you had outgrown your selfish, childish tendencies.” He waves a dismissive hand before dropping his palm to the table with a thud.

“But here we are. I guess we were wrong.”

Neither of my parents look at me again after that, and their silence is all the indication I need to know the conversation is over. Three strikes, and I’m officially out of the game. I don’t bother saying anything either as I turn and storm out of the kitchen.

As I make my way to the front door on unsteady legs, I cycle through each of the five stages of grief, hurtling quickly toward a dazed acceptance.

The one outcome I had been hoping to evade through my agreement with Blondie is now unavoidable.

My parents will cut me off and disown me after this. I am doomed.

But she isn’t, a small voice in my head calls out from the void. Not yet.

My hands shake as I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone.

There might not be much I can do for Blondie after today, but I can at least do this one last thing for her while I still have time.

While I still have money to do something with.

Tapping open my cash app, I select her contact, type in the max amount it will let me send, and hit the button to transfer, letting out a breath of relief when the success notification takes over my screen.

Whatever happens now, I can rest easy knowing Blondie will be fine. Her mom will be fine. At least, for a little while longer.

I barely process the walk from the front door to my car, and no sooner do I slide into the driver’s seat and turn on the ignition than Blondie’s name pops up on the console, alerting me to her incoming call.

Though I hit the answer button, I can’t seem to find the strength to speak.

“Damian?”

My hand clutches the gear stick, but I don’t shift it into drive or lift my foot from the brake. I just stare out the windshield at this house I once called home, certain this will be the last time I see it.

“Hello?” Blondie prompts when my silence persists.

My voice is like gravel when I finally force myself to respond. “I’m here.”

“I just saw the transfer,” she hedges. “What’s going on? Why did you send me all that extra money?”

A moment passes. Then another. My pulse is drumming in my ears, in my throat, in my head, and my breaths seem to echo around me, punched from my constricting lungs. The sound of each exhalation is deafening in the confined space of the car, and my vision is blurring.

Is this what a heart attack feels like? A panic attack? Whatever it is, I feel like I’m dying.

“I just wanted to make sure you and your mom are taken care of,” I manage, trying to blink the haze from my eyes. I only register the distortion as tears when one breaks free and slides down my cheek.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Blondie asks, and I hear it then—the worry and doubt in her voice.

“They know,” I rasp, mimicking the words she said to me that night in Grape Expectations.

The same words but with very different results.

That tightening in my chest intensifies to the point my lungs are almost completely strangled of breath.

I slam my eyes shut and inhale through my nose, then exhale through my mouth, repeating that process until I’m calm enough to elaborate.

“My parents just confronted me about all the money I’ve been sending you.

Their accountant picked up on it when he was doing our taxes. ”

Although it’s soft, I catch Blondie’s sharp gasp. “I… What does this?—”

“I don’t know how much longer I’ll have access to my account,” I cut in. “I wish I could send you more, but that’s the limit?—”

“Wait, stop for a minute,” Blondie begs, and she must hear the ratcheting panic in my voice because she hurriedly adds, “Just…take a breath. We can fix this, okay? We can talk to your parents together. We’ll explain everything.”

I shake my head, even though she can’t see it. “There’s nothing to fix, Dornan,” I whisper. “It’s too late. The damage is done.”

All the work we put into the proposal, all the energy and time we invested has been for nothing. It’s over. My dad might not have said it out loud, but I knew he was thinking it, and he was right. I’ve failed my abuelo. I’ve failed Jamie. I’ve failed Blondie.

Most of all, I’ve failed myself.

“Then let’s call your abuela,” Blondie suggests, her growing agitation mirroring mine. “She’ll understand. She?—”

“You don’t get it.” I let out a harsh, cynical laugh. “I can’t come back from this. Not with them.”

Her quiet whine of distress rakes over my skin like nails. “Don’t do this. Don’t give up. I can only imagine how scared you are, but you don’t have to face this alone. You aren’t alone. You know that, right?”

Blondie’s words seem to extend from the speaker and reach through my chest to touch something inside me. Something dark and twisted that’s been shoved deep down.

“I should be,” I breathe as the harsh reality of the absolute clusterfuck I’ve wrought on myself—on both of us—finally sinks in.

Who is Damian Navarro without his family’s money?

Nobody, that’s who. Just a worthless, useless nobody.

“I ruin everything I touch. I can’t even uphold my end of our agreement anymore?—”

“Fuck the agreement, Damian!” Blondie counters as that tightening in my chest becomes so overwhelming I struggle to focus. Her words are dampened by the growing beat of my pulse in my ears and my head. “I’m not talking about that, I’m talking about you . Just…come over and we’ll work it out.”

Clamping my eyes shut, I press my forehead to the cold steering wheel. “I can’t. I…” Swallowing past the dryness in my throat, I force myself upright. “I need to think.”

I need to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do.

As if sensing what’s coming, Blondie says, “Damian, don’t shut me out—” but I hit the end call button, put the car into gear, and drive.