Breaking Even (Sterling Shore, #5)

by C.M. Owens

Great. I don't take good selfies, so I can only imagine how I'll look in a mug shot.

His massive kitchen is easy to locate, and I take a second to marvel at all the marble surfaces. It looks like a picture Tuscany would envy. Surprisingly, the copper accents and fixtures actually look good alongside the sleek stainless steel appliances. Guys don't deserve kitchens like this. I would love it, take care of it, and treat it with so much respect.

Apparently they think I'm this sweet little girl who couldn't possibly break into a guy's house, steal his keys, and blow glitter through a hose and into his air vents. That took hours to do, by the way, and I still have glitter tickling the back of my throat when I inhaled by accident.

For a second, that sounds dirty, but in the next breath, it sounds terrifying. What has the devil woman done now?

Why do girls talk in a baby voice on purpose? Wouldn’t that only appeal to a pedophile?

That’s how people find a few moments of stolen happiness from an otherwise cold and disappointing world—they settle.

I’ve just thrown my heart into a blender. It won’t be long until the button is pressed and my heart is pureed. But I can’t just stop. Not when I’ve never felt like this with someone. I don’t feel used. I don’t feel like a disappointment when he’s with me. And I don’t feel like the girl someone is passing the time with. Even if it’s just an illusion, it feels like he wants to be with me as much as I want to be with him. And it’s hard to let go of something that I’ve always wanted to feel.

My father always said not to drink when you had secrets to keep. You never know what might come out.

Love is complicated, messy, and fucked up. Love is a relentless bind that drowns you and holds you down.

Love is a bitter, cold-hearted bitch,

I thought I’d feel better; I thought he’d make me angry and give me back what’s missing so I can cope. But it is still missing, and I only feel worse. Death is easier when you have someone or something to blame—something tangible you can yell at or hate. It’s hard to hate a sickness you can’t see, one you can’t even definitively name. It’s a lot easier to hate yourself.

I don’t want to fight for a man who’s not willing to fight for me.

Life’s too short. Misery is eternal if you allow it to be.”

It’s a sea of tombstones that tell brief stories with a few simple endearments—some are truths, some are lies. All are insufficient if you’re looking for true insight into a person’s life. Most say loving mother, just as his mother’s tombstone. But it doesn’t stain the present with pain from the past by telling that she lost her control in her life. It doesn’t show the scars she embedded deep inside of her son’s mind when the sickness ruled her. And it doesn’t tell the story of how their home was broken because of a disease they couldn’t see without physical manifestation. Some stories are buried with the bodies those tombstones represent. Secrets hide amongst the layers of memories that still rest on the surface. Each soul has a different story that may or may not be told. And we’re here, listening to the resting souls that have left behind both good and bad stories to be shared.

This is fucked up no matter how you slice it. No one is a winner in this. Allie was a single mom who didn’t know the name of her child’s father; Wren is the guy who missed six years of his daughter’s life because he messed up once and acted like a jerk; and the kid is stuck in the middle.

Allie is actually trying to help us have a relationship, but she resents me—possibly hates me. Angel is smart enough and observant enough to realize that without Allie vocalizing it. She’s loyal to her mom, and I don’t stand a chance until I get on Allie’s good side.

he can’t help me build a relationship with an estranged daughter. No one can. It’s on me,

I paved the road, now I have to try and drive down it despite the damn crater-like potholes that are on it.”

I’ve seen guilt—struggled with it for most of my life. Still struggle with it. His guilt is different than mine, but I see it.

I wish Wren had someone to help him through this right now. I wish it was me, but I don’t know what to say. But I’ll be there as much as I can, just like he’s always been for me.