45. Lia

45

LIA

"I don't think the cranes worked, Berry."

"I don't either." Mason was so painfully thin now, so different from the man I'd fallen in love with. I didn't dare crawl into bed with him anymore.

Every time I left his room, I wanted to go outside and scream.

"Whatever happens," he said, so softly I had to lean over to hear him. "I just want you to be happy. Same for Caleb."

"Stop," I said, shaking my head, tears streaking down my face. "Just stop being so nice about everything, Mason! Just—fucking be a dick! Be selfish for once!"

He made a frightening, repetitive sound, and it took me a moment to realize he was laughing.

"Don't die while I'm pissed at you," I complained.

"Berry, I'm not going to go any other way."

I dove my face into his nearest hand. "I love you."

"I love you, too, Berry."

And it was the last thing he said.

—Sarah, from One of a Thousand Wishes by A. R. McGeorge

" W hy'd you let him do that to you?" Junior asked, after his third drink in, when he'd brought up the topic of me cleaning toilets.

I could hardly tell Junior the truth. "I wanted to start from the ground up."

"Or—and hear me out—Rhaim's a controlling asshole."

"Well, you're not wrong there," I said, and Junior laughed.

It didn't bother me, because Rhaim himself would be the first to agree. I really hoped he was okay, off doing whatever was more important than me.

As long as it wasn't a whoever type of situation, I was all right.

I'd put my phone on silent because I didn't want to take a call from Rhaim in front of Junior, but now, not knowing whether or not he'd reached out in the intervening time was killing me.

"Speaking of toilets—where's the bathroom?" I asked, looking around the nearby crowd.

"In the back," Junior said while pointing a finger. "Check the tile while you're there—it's imported from Egypt. Hand painted."

"I will," I promised, then got up to start slinking through the crowd.

There was a line for the women's bathroom because of course there was, so I put my back against the wall and pulled out my phone while I waited.

There was nothing from Rhaim.

Would he: prefer I suffer in silent fear, letting worrying about him eat me up inside? Or would he rather I just text him for a little bit of reassurance, easily provided, assuming he had the time?

I opted for the latter.

You okay?

I texted, and tried to temper my expectations of getting anything in return, as I finally made it inside a stall.

After that, I tried hopping into Instagram—and was told my account was terminated.

I almost dropped my phone into the toilet.

What the fuck?

I knew things like that happened all the time, but I'd assumed they'd never happen to me. I would've stayed in there longer, coping with the sudden loss, if another frustrated woman hadn't started knocking on the door.

"Sorry!" I shouted. I finished my business, washed my hands, and made it back to the table, where Junior had ordered his fourth drink, and a fresh water for me was waiting.

"Did you get bad news?" Junior asked at seeing me.

"What?" I hadn't even tried to keep a straight face, dammit. "Oh—no. I'm just tired." I needed to get home immediately to see if I could salvage things from my laptop. "I'm still jetlagged, if you can believe it," I said, blowing my emotions off.

I could hardly pretend to be running an IPO and be upset about an Instagram account—but I was.

In a world that largely sucked for me, those people had been my friends. They were waiting for me when I came back from long spells without my phone, when I was being ‘guarded' for my own safekeeping—and they were excited to see me post again. When you had to skip from place to place like I did, when any friends I made got ripped from my grasp by an embarrassing hospitalization or a move, having a handful of people who didn't care who I was and who looked forward to seeing me, even if it was just online . . . it felt a lot like having family.

More than my actual family did, that was for sure.

My stomach squeezed with anxiety. "Yeah, I need to get home."

"Gotcha," Junior said, pulling out his phone. "I can call us up a ride."

"I can get my own, thanks," I said, jumping into my phone's screen, to give logging in another try.

It didn't work.

"Nah, I insist," Junior said, slurring a little. "Actually—let's go back to Blackwing? I'd love to give you the behind-the-scenes tour."

After I summoned up a car, I looked up and over at him. I realized I couldn't imagine him managing to walk down the block straight.

And actually, I might need to take him home, as drunk as he was, just to be a good person.

His attention flickered to his phone, and he sent another text, clearly expecting something in return—while my rideshare app let me know it'd found someone.

"Are you going to be okay if I leave you?" I asked him.

Junior looked up at me, laughed, and the alcoholic scent of his breath washed over me. "I'm gonna be fine," he said, standing up. "Just—hang on?"

I watched him send another text, as the car coming for me made a drop off and turned back a few blocks away.

"I mean it, Junior. I don't want you puking in a corner alone somewhere."

No matter how often the thought of his father had done as much to me.

He blew me off and grabbed his jacket. "Let's go outside."

The outdoor air seemed to sober him up a little, and he kept looking around. "I can tell my driver to take you instead of me?—"

"No—I'm fine," he said, more loudly before stumbling.

"Tête de noeud," a man standing in line for the bar commented to his girlfriend.

I snapped back in French, "He may be an asshole, but it's his bar, so be nice," and the man's head jerked back in surprise.

Junior tracked the conversation between us, then shoved his phone into a pocket with disgust. "I can tell you're talking about me."

"I just told him it was your bar," I said, this time in English, hoping he wouldn't try to start anything.

Junior stepped up to the man, who was bigger than he was and quite a bit more sober. "Say it in English, or get out of the line?—"

"Junior," I protested, grabbing his arm.

"Why are you with him?" the man asked me in French, ready to come to my rescue.

I responded in kind. "I'm not—we're related—and he's drunk. Back off, please."

"Both of you speak English! Now!" Junior shouted, and then whirled on me. "I came out with you to be friendly, Lia. My dad told me not to—but I thought we might actually have something in common, underneath all the bullshit. I really hoped we could work together."

While I couldn't truly say "Me too," I did feel some pain for him, until he continued.

"But my dad was right about you. Said you were too spoiled to realize how lucky you'd been—off on a vacation for ten years!"

"It wasn't a vacation," I protested, but it sounded weak even to my own ears. "It was school."

"Learning French and shit, while I had to stay here." His anger turned to mutters as he pulled out his phone again to savagely send another text.

I realized that was the root of all of his problems with me—he thought I'd had it easy.

It didn't excuse his behavior in the least, but at least now I understood.

I couldn't very well tell him the truth now though, could I?

My car finally arrived, after hitting every red light coming down the street. The driver rolled down his window to wave at me, and I stepped toward him.

"Wait," Junior said, catching my wrist and pulling.

By the bar's feeble light, and with the power of my memories—how many times had I been dragged off to places I didn't want to be by a man who looked very much like him? I froze for a second, before yanking my arm free.

"Junior, you're drunk. I'm going to do you a favor and pretend this never happened," I said, and practically leapt into the waiting vehicle.