All That Really Matters, Nicole Deese [best detective novels of all time .TXT] 📗

Someone like you and Glo and Clara.” And even Miles. Tears gathered in my eyes again, spilling over my cheeks once more.

Another step closer. Another too-calm question. “So if you’re so sure you don’t belong here, then why did you come tonight?”

“Because I didn’t know where else to go.” I shifted my focus to the forest of trees, wishing I could hide among them. “And yes, I realize how absolutely pathetic that sounds. But it’s true.”

“Then it’s not pathetic, it’s real.”

“Real,” I repeated with a self-deprecating laugh. “You know, people talk about how important reality is, how the world would be better if we could just be real with each other. But nobody really wants that, Silas. Not really. If they did, there wouldn’t be multibillion-dollar companies built on bettering ourselves in every possible way—physically, mentally, emotionally, even spiritually. It’s why I have a job.”

I pointed to the red Tesla behind me. “It’s why I have that car and this purse and these shoes.” I rotated my ankle to show off my newest Coach slip-ons. “Nobody wants to see images of empty ice cream cartons and piles of dirty laundry. They want pictures of pristine living rooms with fluffy throw pillows and white shiplap walls and huge vases of fresh wildflowers. They want contouring compacts that promise a face like a Kardashian. They want chins without blemishes and clothing without the stains of last night’s chili cheese dog. Because that’s where hope actually lives—in the hustle. And if they can just hustle a little harder, a little longer, a little faster . . . then maybe all those pretty things can be theirs. Maybe life will finally make sense. Maybe something they do will actually matter.” I swiped at the tear trailing my jaw. “Reality isn’t enough. It’s never been enough.”

In the made-for-TV version of this conversation, the camera would zoom in on Silas’s face, panning away to a commercial break only after his broodiest of micro-expressions had declared me wrong.

But naturally, Silas never played to my expectations.

“You’re right. Our present reality isn’t enough; it was never meant to be. The danger, as far as I see it, is not in promoting the stuff you enjoy, it’s in believing that something so temporary can bring you actual joy. Peace. Acceptance. Fulfillment. Because if that were actually true, you wouldn’t be here tonight. You wouldn’t have parked in front of this building looking for something you can’t buy or sell.” He stepped closer. “And you wouldn’t have offered to drive a nineteen-year-old orphan across town once a week for any other reason than to bring her joy.”

I closed my eyes, my chin quivering in a way I hadn’t felt since I was a young girl. But Silas deserved better than my half-truths, better than my stories and my spins. He deserved better than anything I could offer him. And though I knew he’d cut me from the program the minute I confessed, I would keep my end of the deals I’d made. I’d get all the donations he needed for the house, and I’d even hire a driver to take Wren to her brother’s farm once a week. But I couldn’t hold back the truth of who I was for one more second.

Because confessing had to be better than the guilt pumping through my veins right now and poisoning my heart.

“I have an answer to question two,” I said. “The one about tension and regret and about not being the truest version of yourself.”

Silas said nothing in response; he just waited.

“Before this moment, I believed my low point was losing my virtual assistant today. I felt sorry for myself, for the fact that my best friend—my only real friend for these last three years as Molly McKenzie of Makeup Matters with Molly—was just bought off by my ex-boyfriend.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“And see? That’s exactly how I want you to feel—sorry for me,” I said, tears swimming in my eyes. “Because maybe then I can be a Catherine type—the kind of woman who wins your respect by rising above her own sufferings and lends a hand to those in need of justice and support. . . .” I shook my head. “Only that’s not who I am. And no matter how desperately I want to be more than just a pretty face with an addictive personality . . . the truth is, the only person I wanted to help when I first came here was me and me alone.”

The confusion clouding his face crippled something inside my chest. Whatever trust I’d managed to swindle from Silas was about to die a hard, quick death. “Care to expound on that?”

“I didn’t sign up to be a mentor because of some undying passion for my community or its underprivileged youth. I came for . . .” My stomach roiled, and for a moment I thought I’d actually be sick. Right there, in the parking lot with Silas. I forced the words out. “I filled out the volunteer application because I was being considered for a network show that dealt with disadvantaged teens and young adults. And I was told to—” No, I wouldn’t blame Ethan for this. I was an adult woman who needed to be held responsible for her own life choices. Her own deception in this plan. “I got your contact information from my brother under false pretenses. And then I sought you out and applied for the summer mentor position with the sole purpose of gaining experience with these residents so that I could use the experience to further my own career.” Again, nausea churned as the last of the truth sputtered out. “And to grow my following.”

“How?” he asked, his tone low and flat.

“By linking my brand to a human-interest cause. To your program here.”

“And have you?”

“No.” I shook my head adamantly. “I swear to you, I haven’t, Silas. I haven’t posted a single thing. I’ve only filed some notes away on my computer. Some future ideas and a few pictures I was planning to get your permission to