My agent pauses, which isn’t a very common occurrence with him. He’s like me. Blunt and to the point. Not willing to waste time.
“Ashton,” I bark impatiently.
Then he says it. “It’s Winter.”
My fingers clench around the edge of the chair arm. “What about her?”
There’s a deep sigh, defeated and something else, before he murmurs, “There’s something I should tell you. I should have told you when you asked before.”
I stand up and look at Hoffman. “I’ve got to go.”
He doesn’t try to stop me, which would have been pointless anyway. As I head out to my car, I tell Ashton, “Talk. Now.”
*
The anger radiatingthrough my body could have been avoided ifAshton had told me the truth when I asked him for it weeks ago.
I don’t feel bad hanging up on him after he’s done explaining how his brother ruined Winter’s life, or how he’s kept tabs on her since the fatal accident and hearing. I have no interest in listening to some half-assed excuses as to why he thought it was okay to still involve himself in her life like he has a say.
He doesn’t.
His brother doesn’t.
None of his family do.
Guilty conscience or not, he should have never stepped foot into her space. Anybody who goes through the loss she did…Christ. I can’t even imagine. My family is still alive—still out there wasting valuable oxygen while hers is six feet under. It isn’t fair.
I’d known something heavy happened in her life, but I never would have assumed she lost both her parents. Especially not the cruel way she did.
“How old was she?” I growl at Ashton over the phone.
A pause. Then, “Thirteen,” he answers in a raspy voice.
When I was thirteen, I’d been getting drunk with my biological father. Every goddamn time my parents got custody of me again, I was sucked back into their world. I was surrounded by alcohol and drugs and vices that made me just as weak as them. I wish I had stayed at any other foster home—even the ones that would lock me away at night and limit my food during the day. Even the ones that clearly only did it for a paycheck, not because they wanted to make a difference. At least if I stayed in my room and kept to myself, I was safe from myself. Safe fromthem. Why do the good people, those who deserve to be parents, go first?
Ashton knows better than to call me back to lecture me about hanging up on him. At least he’s smart enough not to break through the thinnest fucking ice he’s standing on right now.
There are four text messages waiting for me when I pick up my phone to search for the name I want to talk to.
Hoffman:Is everything okay?
Clarkson:Coach said you walked out like your ass was on fire. You good?
Ashton:I didn’t want her to find out that way
Ashton:I’ve done everything I can to make up for it
What way did he want her to find out that his little brother had hit and killed her family? For Christ’s sake, did he think a musical number would suffice to reveal that information? Maybe a five-course meal and a five-digit check bonus for all the hard work she’s done to better my reputation? In his infinite wisdom, did he think hiring her for the job out of everybody at the company would somehow make up for what happened?
Money can’t fix heartache.
I would know.
The hand still on my steering wheel vice grips the leather as I think about the loss I’ve felt over the years. It doesn’t matter how many zeroes are attached to my net worth. It doesn’t change the past or how it molded me.
I find Emaly’s name and hit the call button, impatiently listening to it ring until she picks up.
Her groggy voice answers on the third ring, so she must have been sleeping. “Is this an emergency? I’m so exhausted, and there’s a chance I won’t remember anything said in this conversation. I just had an eight-hour surgery on top of a twenty-four-hour stint at the hospital.”
