Read Online After Hours by Dara Girard - Free Book Online Page A

father.”
    But he wasn’t always. She remembered when he used to follow her around the house like a shadow. He used to like to dress up in superhero costumes and pretend to rescue her from villains. Her husband had squashed those playful times fast, with the back of his hand or a belt, forcing Curtis to abandon his childish ways.
    “He made a choice not to know us. You did nothing wrong.”
    Camille gripped the phone. She’d made Kyle believe that, even though she knew it was a lie.
    ***
    That Thursday, Amera called in sick. She had plenty of sick leave left and still hadn’t come up with her revenge strategy, so she decided to take a day to look over her resume and review her list of references. After retrieving her mail from the lobby, she walked back into her apartment, and tossed it on the table. The diamond ring caught the light and twinkled. She held out her hand and stared at the ring. It was gorgeous. It wasn’t like Curtis to be impulsive, but she was glad he had been.
    She liked wearing it. She liked the feeling of ownership, even though it would be brief since she didn’t plan to keep it. It was nice to imagine being the kind of woman who received such gifts. Her looks were what the western world called exotic, but they were considered ordinary in the small African country, squashed between Gabon and Congo, where she had been born. Her light brown hair and eyes had made her unusual, but she had soon learned how to fit in, and not stand out, whenever she could, by keeping her hair pulled back most of the time, and not wearing makeup to bring attention to herself.
    She looked at the ring then rested her hand on her shoulder. “Oh this?” she said to an imaginary companion. “Yes, I was shocked too when he proposed. He even ordered a string-quartet. The honeymoon? I couldn’t decide whether I wanted us to go to Milan, Morocco, Maine or Madrid so he’s taking me to all four. I know, he’s amazing and so considerate.” She laughed then caught her reflection in the mirror.
    That’s when she saw a woman who nobody loved, who nobody remembered. She saw a woman with haunted eyes who had felt the sting of cruelty which had withered her heart. For a moment, she had brief flashes of long dirt roads and a blazing sun, a refugee camp where the flies were fatter than the people. She remembered sitting in a classroom devouring as many books as she could--dreaming of traveling to Ghana, England and Canada, wondering what minced pie tasted like and imagining the sensation of feeling snow and sledding in the winter. She privately dreamed of finding a family like the redheaded girl she’d read about, who lived on Prince Edward Island or being the reluctant pickpocket surviving the streets of London, and finding his rightful inheritance. But she soon learned that there was no grandfather for her to live with in the Swiss Alps, or gracious Uncle who had a secret garden, who would come to her rescue. She remembered when she stopped reading those books. When she stopped dreaming.
    She’d learned to depend on herself. She used the excellent education she had received to forge a path away from the horrors of her past. Miss Agatha Wenthrop, the woman who had created the Wenthrop Children’s Home, the second orphanage she had been raised in believed in education. It didn’t matter that they lived miles away from western civilization, she insisted that the curriculum be equal to those who attended the best schools. When Amera arrived in America as an asylee with permanent residence status, she had no trouble securing a place in a small prestigious college, which was paid for by a scholarship she won.
    She frowned down at the ring, embarrassed by her moment of weakness and dreamy, wistful thoughts and tried to pull it off. She didn’t need a family. She didn’t need a man. She was fine as she was. She may be alone, but she wasn’t lonely. She twisted the ring, but it wouldn’t budge. She sighed. She’d remove it