Philippe smiles proud of himself.“Of course I did.You two will accomplish what they need.While they were recruiting you, I tried to have you on the same team but it didn’t work out back then.”He shrugs as if satisfied with his choice.“Now we can.”
Monty mutters something that sounds likefucking perfectunder his breath.I’m torn between laughing and slamming my fist into a wall.
Philippe clasps Vesper’s shoulder with one hand, then adds, “Figure it out, boys.Just don’t fuck it up for her.”
ChapterEleven
Callaway
Vesper doesn’t want her father riding back to Juniper Ridge alone, not even with a driver.Not surprising though.She wants to make sure he’s settled, that he has groceries and someone to yell at him if he forgets to eat again.
I’m on the phone with Harvey, making sure he assembles a team to help him not only with the camp but also with Philippe’s care.Everything needs to be set up before we leave for Portland.I’m trying to act like I have it all under control.
I wish I could stay overnight, but there’s no way to make it to training by eight-thirty if we do.I could leave Monty behind, let him handle things, but he has to be there with me.Plus, I’m not that big of an asshole.
Our rivalry is something we have to put aside for now, maybe even for a while.Though our current seating situation is a sick joke.
Philippe’s up front.That leaves the three of us—me, Monty, and Vesper—crammed into the backseat like a sitcom gone feral.She’s in the middle, her shoulders drawn in, her knees pulled close, head leaning toward the window like maybe she can escape us both if she closes her eyes hard enough.
She hasn’t said much since we left the hospital.Her fingers have curled around the hem of her sleeve, tugging it, twisting.It’s her tell.She’s anxious.Trying to stay small.Trying not to show it.
Monty breaks the silence.
“You okay?”he asks, low and even, like he doesn’t want to spook her.
She waves him off.“Peachy.”
“You’ve been pale since the airport,” I say, voice casual, but it comes out too clipped.
She glares at me.“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t do the concerned voice.”Her jaw locks.“It’s fine.I haven’t slept much.I’ve had coffee, sugar, and not much else.”
Philippe cranes his neck around.“We can stop at the diner.You need something in your stomach.”
“I’ll make food at your place,” she says too fast, almost as if she wants us to drop the subject.
The road curves, sloping down toward the turnoff, and the car shifts.Her hand flies to her mouth.A sound breaks from her throat.
It’s small, but it guts me.
“Pull over,” Monty says, already reaching for the door handle.
“What—” I start, but he’s already halfway out, dragging Ves with him.
She stumbles onto the shoulder, knees bending.Then she’s bracing herself with both hands, gasping—and vomiting.
It crashes into me like I’m the one kneeling there.Like every dry heave she can’t hide is a tally mark of how much we’ve failed her.I want to go to her.I want to fucking fix it.But I don’t know how.
I’m out of the car with a water bottle and a crumpled pack of tissues I shoved into my pocket like a joke when I got in.Monty’s crouched beside her, one arm curved around her back, the other holding her braid.He’s murmuring something I can’t make out.Useless words, but they’re tender, maybe even loving.
I hate him for it.
She spits into the gravel, rinses her mouth with the water I hand her, and wipes her face with the tissue like she’s apologizing for this moment.
“Sorry,” she mutters, avoiding both our eyes.
