Page 40 of The Mountain Echoes

According to Papa, Hudson cheated on me because I was lacking, not because he was weak, not because my sister’s morals were nonexistent.

Celine had taken one look at him, his Rolex watch, and found out his family had money, and I hadn’t stood a chance.

I like my women soft.

I’m not feminine. I’m not beautiful. Is that the reason I can’t have the life I want? Marriage. Kids. A man to love me.

But all that requires me to trust, and Hudson took that from me. What he did, what Celine did, what Papa did, burned a hole right through my belief in forever.

I tried to be in relationships, but they didn’t work out.

One man wanted more, which I couldn’t give him. He called me emotionally stunted.

A man I’d gone out on a date with said that my bodyresembled an ironing board when I told him there was no way in hell I’d sleep with him,despitehim taking me out for dinner.

Is that what Maverick sees? A woman who is tall and flat with a plain face that she doesn’t even bother to put makeup on. A body that is strong but not curvy. Hands that are calloused, not supple. A face that’s weathered, not pampered.

I press the heels of my palms to my eyes, trying to push back the tears, but it’s useless. They slip out anyway, hot and humiliating, soaking into the pillow.

I cry quietly—just a few trembling breaths and tears you try to wipe away because there are so many of them.

If Papa were alive, he’d mock me for crying.

Celine cried and probably still does at the drop of a hat—butshe had permission to be weak, I didn’t.

I can’t be strong all the time.I just can’t.

I buried my father just now, but I lost him years ago.

I let the ache swallow me, because at least here, in the dark, no one sees, no one tells me to stop feeling.

I wear my sunglasses in the dining room where breakfast is served. Yeah, it isserved. We’re bleeding money, and Celine wants every meal at home to be a performance…staged in a room too big for the cast.

The dining room, Mama’s pride and joy, is grand, featuring a polished walnut table that seats twelve. Avase of fresh-cut flowers from the orchard sits in the center, pretending everything’s fine.

Sunlight filters through lace-trimmed windows.

Vera pours me coffee, despite my saying I can do it myself.

“Are you okay?” she asks softly.

“Just a headache,” I murmur.

I drink my coffee, grateful that it smells so damn good.

I look at the food on the table and grimace. It looks like the fucking continental breakfast at a five-star hotel. Scrambled eggs, bacon, homemade biscuits, and some kind of fancy fruit arrangement, Celine probably demanded to make breakfast feel moreAspen brunchthanranch breakfast.

“Where do Earl and Tomas eat?”

“In the kitchen.” Vera looks at the entryway to the dining room and lowers her voice, “They’re not allowed anywhere else in the house but there.”

Like mother, like daughter.

Mama also had a thing about the help being kept at a distance, which is bullshit because the help they so condescend, makes sure we can keep the lights on.

“Why do we have so much food?” I whisper because loud voices feel like spikes through the soft tissue of my brain.

My migraine has now come down to the level of a nasty hangover. Another few hours and it’ll pass, which I’m grateful for.