Marriage of Inconvenience(Knitting in the City Book #7)(44)

“Yes. For theft.”

Dan sputtered, seemed to struggle to find words, and eventually asked, “What did you steal?”

“All sorts of things, always from a supermarket or a convenience store. Food mostly.”

“This was when you were a runaway?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” He was looking at me like I was something new and peculiar. “So they tracked you down?”

“No. A few months before my eighteenth birthday, I went to the police and turned myself in.”

He reared back. “Get out.”

“I did.” I nodded firmly. “I made a list of all the stores and items I could remember stealing from and turned myself in.”

“Fucking nerves of steel on you.” He cracked a smile, now looking at me like I was something new and amazing, but still peculiar. “What happened?”

Remembering the first twenty-four hours after I’d turned myself in, the event that stood out the most was Eugene showing up, looking not just grim, but also furious. “Eugene was very angry.”

“This is your dad’s lawyer? I’ll bet.”

“Especially since I’d refused his help in favor of a public defender.”

“No shit?”

“No shit,” I repeated, smiling a little at my use of the cuss word. “But all I felt was relief. I served my time in the detention center. I completed my community service and was accepted to a work-release program. I paid restitution to the stores from my earnings. It took me three years, but I did it.”

“You were in a detention center?” He scratched his chin, examining me. “Those places can be rough.”

“It was scary,”—I shrugged—“but no more so than living on the streets.”

“Was that story in the papers? I don’t remember hearing about it.”

“No, actually. By some miracle, the media never picked up on the story.” I suspected that had been Eugene’s doing, to spare my father any embarrassment.

Dan exhaled a disbelieving sigh, shaking his head. “This is unbelievable,” he said. But I wasn’t really listening to him.

I was lost to my recollections, and so I spoke without thinking, “Turning myself in was the best thing I’ve ever done. I was off the streets, off drugs, and my caseworker helped me figure out how to get my GED. Since I’d voluntarily confessed, and turned myself in prior to my eighteenth birthday, my records are sealed. It changed my life.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“It is unbelievable. I got lucky, so lucky, I know I did. Some kids don’t get a second chance even if they want one. But the experience did teach me the importance of always doing the right thing—especially when it’s scary—because the alternative is living in constant fear and shame.”

I fingered my phone, knowing now was the right time to show him my list. And yet I hesitated. Once he knew, he would always know. There was no taking this back.

Dan reached over and moved my hair behind my shoulder, drawing my attention back to him. “You’re different.”

“Different? Than what?”

“Different than what I thought you were like.”

My stomach wanted to drop, but this time I wouldn’t let it. So what if who I was, what I’d done, disappointed him? There was nothing I could do about that now, and I certainly didn’t have time to cry about it given my present circumstances.

I lifted my chin as ice entered my words. “Really? And how am I different?”

“You’re tough.”

I suppressed my wince, but just barely.

I wasn’t sure if he meant tough as a compliment or as an insult. If you called a man tough, it was automatically considered a positive attribute. Guys were supposed to be tough. But if a woman was called tough—or hard, or experienced—it wasn’t necessarily praise. My therapist and I had discussed this double standard at length, especially as it related to my own issues with self-worth.

We wanted guys to be tough, strong, capable, and decisive, hardened by experience.

We wanted women to be soft, vulnerable, retiring, and gentle, shielded from hardship.

I resisted the concept of being retiring, especially over the last two years as I worked to learn my place at Caravel. How was I supposed to assume the role of majority shareholder while also wearing a mantel of timidity? It was impossible to be both.

I couldn’t afford gentleness, not with Caleb’s scheming. And, other than Uncle Eugene, no one in my life had ever attempted to shield me from hardship. Except maybe my mother, and then only from her hallucinations.

My therapist had said these expectations, these ideals—for both men and women—were at odds with what was healthy and demanded by reality.