“No, Dad,” I laugh. “I really fucking don’t. As long as Pippa and I know the truth, that’s all I give a shit about. I don’t care what anyone thinks,especiallynot you. You hate my career? Whatever. I love it, and you know what, I’m one of the best poker players in the entire fucking world. If you gave more of a shit about your family instead of what other people think, maybe you’d be proud of that.”
“Gambling isn’t a career,” he sniffs. The same refrain he’s repeated over and over, so many times that I wouldn’t be surprised if he got it tattooed across his face. “It’s a game you play with morally bankrupt deadbeats. You’re going to regret it in a decade, when you have nothing to show for your life.”
“Poker paid for this apartment.” I gesture wildly around it. “It brought me across the world, introduced me to people I wouldn’t have met otherwise. People you’re too much of a snob to even acknowledge. Maybe I’ll regret it one day. But what you’re doing? Pushing away your own son? I bet you’ll regret that more.”
His lips press into a firm line and he shakes his head. “You always were a smart boy, Ryan—too smart for your own good. I set my expectations high because I knew what you could do if you tried. But the choices you’ve made—they’re unacceptable.”
Once, that might have hurt me. Now, I’m maxed out on pain. “I’m done waiting for you to accept my life choices,” I say coolly. “Imade them, and that’s it. So until you can respect that, I don’t see a reason why we should spend any more time together. You can go now, Dad.”
Jack straightens his shoulders. “I suppose you’ll call when you need something. Goodbye, Ryan.”
The elevator doors open for him the second he presses the button. They’re the only thing in this apartment he has thepower to command anymore. As the doors close on his narrow face, I wonder if he’ll ever let go of his pride long enough to realize what he just lost.
37
PIPPA
When my fever finally breaks, it’s like coming up from underwater. The surroundings go from blurry to crisp. Distant noises become crystal clear, and the intense pressure pressing all around your head is gone. A transition so sudden, it’s like traveling between worlds.
But I’ve never been underwater for three days before.
So it’s weird, coming out and finding that the world is a little different. Somehow, my sheets got changed, even though I can’t remember getting out of bed for that to happen. A glass of water has magically appeared on the bedside table, and I drink it down hungrily.
Waffle takes the opportunity to leap onto my lap. I look down at her and my heart sinks. Fuck, if I’ve been this out of it, it’s probably been three days since she ate.
“I’m so sorry, pretty girl!” I yelp as I jump out of bed, rushing to her feeder in the kitchen.
Except the feeder is already full, and her water bowl has been changed. In fact, the entire kitchen looks like it’s been wiped down, and the dishwasher is whirring. The apartment is clean, fresh, and completely quiet. Which, since I was too sick to clean,is weirdly suspicious. What exactly did I miss since my fever took over?
My phone seems like the most likely place to find answers, so I head back to the bedroom to review.
Apparently, I’ve missed a dozen calls from Ingrid. She’s also sent and unsent a bunch of texts, which I obviously can’t read now. Maybe she reamed me out for getting sick, then thought better of it? In any case, the text shedidn’tunsend explains a lot, and yet nothing at all.
Ingrid
Hope you’re feeling better. Call me when you have a chance. I had a very interesting conversation with your stepbrother.
How the hell did my boss end up talking to Ryan? Presumably he explained that I was sick, but what on Earth would he say that’sinteresting?
There’s also a text from Ryan a few days ago, asking if I’m still alive. I’m guessing when I didn’t respond, he barged in my room and found me. I do remember him taking care of me—soup bringing, toilet hair holding—but it’s all a little hazy. I hope my fever didn’t make me do or say anything I’d regret.
Because one thing sure hasn’t changed: Ryan isn’t good for me. His tender Florence Nightingale routine is a dangerous distraction, designed by the universe to tempt me to reconsider that decision.
I have to be stronger. Unless Ryan decided that he wants to be my actual boyfriend, I can’t let him in any deeper.
My heart jumps to my throat when I hear the elevator doors open. Presumably, Ryan’s back, and I don’t know if I’m ready to see him yet. But I have to find out what he said to Ingrid, so I don’t exactly have a choice.
With my purple blanket around my shoulders, I head to the kitchen to find Ryan carrying a brown paper bag and two plastic cups. His eyes widen when he sees me.
“Hey,” he says, his eyes flickering over my face and body, taking stock of me. “Are you feeling better?”
“Better is relative,” I say, shrugging. “I feel like I just got run over by a dump truck, but that’s better than yesterday. Even though I’m pretty sure I smell like death.”
Ryan chuckles and holds up the bag. “Does ‘better’ mean you’re ready for French toast and an omelette? Beau made them up for you.”
My stomach twists uncomfortably. “I don’t think I’m there yet, sorry.”
“I thought so. How about a smoothie?”
