As I get closer to my desk, I can hear a conversation coming from Grant’s office through the open door. Guess he ignored his own edict as well.
“It’s about our bet,” Grant says.
“Our bet?” It’s Emmett voice.
“The one about Aspen.”
I stop and hold my breath, even as tremors start again. But I’m not feverish like before. I’m not cold, either. My head is oddly clear as I accept the possibility that Grant might’ve at some point bragged about being my first to his brothers, too.
“I lost,” Grant says.
What?
“I must be a lot more tired than I thought, because I swear you just admitted defeat. Don’t we still have time until the three-month mark?”
“We do, and I did.”
“Weird. You hate losing more than anything.”
No kidding. He spent tens of thousands of dollars to be my first and win the bet in college.
“So you aren’t going to get her to quit?” Emmett asks.
Out of reflex—maybe because I don’t want to hear the rest of a debasing conversation about me—I take a few steps back. My entire body feels achy, but my throat hurts the most, like it’s covered in frost.
So. When I joined GrantEm, Grant made a bet with his brother—this time to force me to quit. That explains so much about his unreasonable requests, and how furious he was when he realized I was getting paid overtime. He thought I’d quit out of exhaustion and being overworked.
Maybe his offer to “forgive me” was a last-ditch effort to get me to quit. And then he banged on my door on Saturday and Sunday. What would he have said if I’d opened the door?
I’ve simply been a source of amusement for him. My struggle, my dreams, my aspirations are just a big, fat joke. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have started another bet with his brother.
Is he going to streak around the office?I wonder cynically, then decide I don’t care. I walk back to the breakroom, dump the coffee and leave the mug in the sink. Bracing my hands against the edge of the counter, I stare at the brown puddle on the otherwise pristine stainless steel. Maybe I’m like coffee to him. Nice when it’s fresh enough, but as time passes, it becomes gross.
I almost laugh at the ridiculous analogy. I must be tired. Or something. My vision blurs. I blink and feel tears fall. I swipe my fingers across my cheeks to dry them. My head now feels like it’s full of soggy noodles, but I have only moments to gather myself before I have to act like I’m not hurt. That nothing Grant does can ever affect me.
Thank God nobody from his team is in early. Otherwise, so many people would’ve heard. Or maybe they already know. After all, I was the only one who didn’t know back at school, and Grant has even more power here. GrantEm is his kingdom.
I rub my hand over my heart, where a dull ache is starting.It’s just the stress,I tell myself. It has to be. Otherwise, it’s too unfair.
My phone pings in my purse. I pull it out and glance at the screen, wondering if it’s Grant texting for the ten thousandth time. But it’s the Orange Care Center.
–Orange Care Center: We think you should come in. Kenny’s deteriorating rapidly, and he’s asking for you.
I sway. Ice seems to run through my veins. Grandpa looked fine on Saturday. He mistook me for Grandma, but he always does that. He even tangoed with me, humming and laughing.
How can he be deteriorating?
I can’t lose him.Ugly, monstrous panic and terror pulse inside me, and everything burns painfully, like I’m inhaling a cloud of acid. Shaking, I grab my purse and dash toward the elevator, while calling the center.
They’re probably overreacting.I’mprobably overreacting. It’s just some kind of legal thing they have to do, just in case, to prevent a possible lawsuit.
I hit the button for the elevator repeatedly, willing it to come faster. The phone continues to ring. Come on, come on!
“This is Gi-Hoon at the Orange Care Center. How can I help you?”
Finally! “It’s Aspen,” I say hurriedly. “I just got your text.”Tell me you screwed up!
“Oh.” The single, sympathetic syllable dashes all my hopes. “I’m so sorry, Aspen.”
