How the hell do I put this into words? ‘It’s the weddings,’ I say finally. ‘I don’t understand them. I don’t always get your choices. But I’m not… done with you. I might not approve or understand, but I’ll never be done with you. I just need a bit of time.’
Her breath stutters, thick with emotion. ‘You don’t have to approve of me, sweetheart. You never did. Even when I was married to your father. But you’ll always be my son.’ There’s no mistaking the relief in her voice. ‘When are you coming to visit?’
I rake a hand through my hair, staring at the faint strip of dawn bleeding in beside the electric blinds. ‘When that baboon moves out of your house.’
She tuts. ‘Now, now, Cole. I think if you give Doug a chance, you’ll really like him.’
‘Doubtful,’ I growl, and sigh reluctantly. ‘I can’t visit anyway. I’m heading to Barcelona next week. It’s a month-long acquisition project.’
‘Barcelona?’ she repeats, all curiosity and maternal nosiness. ‘Since when are you investing there?’
‘Since someone took something I wanted,’ I say flatly.
She sighs. ‘Uh-oh.’
‘Don’t,’ I warn. ‘They drew first blood.’
Another silence. This one heavier.
‘And after Barcelona?’ she asks gently.
‘Then I’m going to Ireland,’ I say.
‘For your father’s hotel?’ She’s always called the Dublin venture “my father’s hotel”.
‘Yeah.’ And for something else I can’t name.
‘Then promise me you’ll visit when you get back.’
I close my eyes. ‘Fine, I promise.’
She exhales in that soft, relieved way that used to make me feel like Superman as a kid.
‘Good. Now try to get back to sleep. Whatever woke you… it’s probably just stress.’
Stress? Fuck that. Stress is for the weak, and I am anything but weak.
‘Yeah,’ I say, lying through my teeth. ‘Maybe.’
‘Goodnight, sweetheart.’
‘Night, Mom.’ I end the call and stare at the sliding balcony doors. The sun pushes up over the horizon, the first cracks of dawn brightening behind the edge of the blinds.
I have to make one more call before I’m entirely satisfied. I scroll through my contacts until I reach the number for the rehab centre. At five thousand dollars a night, they damn well better have someone manning the phones twenty-four-seven.
‘Cherrydale Wellness Centre, how may I assist you?’ A chirpy voice sing-songs down the phone.
Wellness Centre, because it’s Vegas and god forbid we call it what it is—rehab.
‘Cole Harrington.’ I let the weight of my name sink in for a beat.
‘Mr Harrington,’ she coos. ‘It’s Amanda here.’ She pauses like I’m supposed to know who she is. Another long pause, then, ‘How can I help you?’
‘I’m calling about my brother, Luke. Is he okay?’
The sound of fingers hitting a keyboard travels over the line. ‘Let me just pull up his chart now,’ Amanda chirps, tapping away like she’s hacking into the Pentagon.
A beat passes.
