by London James
That’s a total lie, and both of them know it. I can’t not think of him when half of his DNA is percolating in my uterus.
“Sure, B.” Ben’s jaw tightens. “How is it fine when he just left?”
“He sends money every month. That’s what he said he could do, and he’s doing it.” I swallow. “We just need to accept it.”
“Accept the fact that a literal former Navy Seal is a coward when it comes to his own kid?” Ben growls angrily.
Time has not faded Ben’s anger toward his best friend. Former best friend, whatever. If anything, he’s even more pissed off now. Ben can hold a grudge more than I ever expected.
“Please, Ben.” I rest my hand on my belly. “Can we not?”
“I’m sorry.” He sits back in his seat. “It just kills me.”
“I know, I know.” I press ‘next episode’ on the remote. “Trust me, it hurts me, too.”
I try to focus on the show, but now I’m swirling, thrown into an emotional spiral. Daisy’s been teaching me some breathing exercises I can use when I get overwhelmed. They help me a little bit, but I’m not sure when the pain will ever go away.
I can think of fifty reasons why I’m angry at Ash and fifty reasons why I miss him desperately every damn day. What am I supposed to do, close my eyes and not see all of the things around me that remind me of the fun times we had? Or just magically pretend I’m not pregnant?
I watch as Antoni makes some lettuce wraps with a poor soul who hardly knows what lettuce looks like on the TV. Things will get better. They have to.
I zone out, feeling a little sleepy from all the snacks, dozing off on Zara’s shoulder. With my head so close to her mouth, her sudden scream nearly makes me pee myself. Literally, to my dismay.
“What? What’s wrong?” I sit up, wiping drool off of my face.
“Look!” Zara shoves the phone in my face.
“Hold up, good lord, Zara. Way to wake a girl up from her nap.” I move backward so I can actually read what she’s so excited about.
“Sorry, but you’re gonna shit a brick.” Her hands are trembling, so I take her phone from her hands.
It’s an email from a woman named Macy at Modern New York Bride.
Hello Zara and Briony,
A friend of Modern New York Bride brought your website BloomBrightly to our attention, and we haven’t stopped talking about it. We’d love to talk with you about a feature in an upcoming issue. Please let me know what times work for you.
All the best,
Macy
I drop the phone. “Oh my god.”
“Are you shitting a brick?!” Zara practically screams, picking the phone up. Thankfully she has a heavy-duty case on it or I would have shattered the screen.
“I’m shitting a brick! Zara, how?” I grab her face with both hands, and she grabs mine. I’m not sure why we did that, but it feels right. “We’ve been trying to get in touch with them forever and now it’s happening? How? Who?”
“I don’t know! Ben, do you know?” Zara turns to him.
“I don’t even know what’s happening, honestly,” he says, laughing.
“We’re possibly getting coverage in Modern New York Bride, which has been Briony’s dream since forever and my dream since she told me all about it. They’re notoriously hard to get into, but the companies featured get a massive boost,” Zara explains. “So this is a huge fucking deal!”
“Wow, congrats you two.” Ben grins and rests his hand on top of my head.
“But what if the business grows too fast and I can’t help?” I ask, worry taking away my brief blip of joy.
“We can worry about that later. I’ll… I don’t know, call my sisters or something? Hire a temp?” Zara throws her arms up in the air and sits back into the couch. “Seriously, that’s Future Zara’s problem. You have to gestate my goddaughter or son until they’re old enough to come into our future office that I’m assuming we’ll have at some point. Baby-friendly office.”
“Agreed.” Ben bumps me with his shoulder again. “Seriously, take in the victory.”
I smile, looking at Zara, then Ben. I’m not sure how this touch of good luck has come to us, but I am so damn grateful.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ash
I check my email again and again. I’m supposed to get confirmation from Talia that our angel investment offer for BloomBrightly is finished at any moment. It’s not helping that I’m sitting on the train to Long Island, stalled because of a signal problem.
I want to kick through the window and walk the rest of the way just to keep myself busy. Or I could read the book that I ordered, which is all about letting go of the past. It isn’t a therapist by any means, but I need to take some step in the right direction and throw out all of my baggage. Focusing on BloomBrightly is a more comfortable option.
It’s taken me a while to get together everything I want to do for Briony in the hopes of winning her back. Hopefully it isn’t too late or a completely futile attempt to fix what we could be. Her company is her dream, which I completely understand, having been there myself. And I know that funding at the right time could make or break someone, along with the right exposure. Hopefully she’ll take all of this the way I’m intending.
Between my worries about her and my worries about my dad, I am stretched a little thin.
Ugh, Dad. He’d been doing okay for a while, but now he’s getting worse again as the winter comes. I’ve been scrutinizing every single thing that Nora reports, and it seems like he gets worse at very, very opportune times. He gets worse; then I come over. He tells me all of the things I’m doing wrong in my life until I make some motions to do what he wants. Then he gets a little better. Rinse, repeat.
I’ve fallen down a Google search hole every time I look up his symptoms again since Ben had told me how weird the tests he’s been getting are. Nothing adds up. The only thing I’ve found as an answer is candida overgrowth, which sounds like literally every disease put together. It doesn’t seem promising. I’m not a doctor, but I can form a solid gut opinion. Something is fishy.
So I’m going to talk to his doctor before he knows that I’ve done it. He’s chosen yet another one, Dr. Kim, who’s an internist. He’s gone to him once, and Nora says he doesn’t seem as intimidated by Dad as the other doctors have been.
Finally, the train moves and eventually gets to my stop. I call a car and go directly to the doctor’s office. The doctor found a little time for me when someone else canceled, which I appreciate. So what if I lied and said my dad had given me the okay? If Dad knows I’m going behind his back to talk to a doctor, he’ll rip me a new asshole. So a sort-of-small lie is what it took, and I’m okay with that.
“Mr. King?” a nurse asks, calling me back. She leads me to Dr. Kim’s office, which just has a desk and two seats. Nothing too fancy. Dr. Kim doesn’t seem too fancy either. He just has a white coat over a plain blue button-down shirt and khakis.
“Hi Dr. Kim, thanks for taking the time to chat,” I say, shaking his hand.
“Not a problem. It’s always good to have a family member who’s involved.” He sits down behind his desk.
“Yeah. I’m worried about him. He’s been trying to find an accurate diagnosis for a few years now.” I cross my ankle over my knee.
“Certainly seems so. He gave me a list of all of the medicines he’s on and all of the various diagnoses he’s had. It could fill a book.” He jiggles his computer’s mouse. “And that’s what concerns me. The problem with pain is that it’s very hard to measure. Some people can’t deal with it well at all, while some can deal with it so well that it actually prevents physicians from making an accurate diagnosis.”
He clicks around on his screen, pulling up Dad’s chart. It’s a weird bit of software—it doesn’t look intuitive in the slightest. Dr. Kim scowls at it, mumbling under his breath until he gets what he needed.
“His vital signs seem fine for someone his age. His blood pressure is a little high, but nothing to
worry about. He’d mentioned that he’d had some tremors and rashes, but when I saw him, he was talking about migraines and intermittent pain in his gut. He claimed that he was in pain when I saw him, but during my examination, I did things to purposefully distract him from what I was doing. I believe he’s exaggerating his pain.”
He says the words carefully like he’s afraid of upsetting me. But he just confirmed what I’ve been suspecting.
“Between that and his extensive and varied history with doctors and the mix of medications he’s on, I think he should seek the help of a psychiatrist.” He folds his hands on the desk.
I nod slowly, unsure what to do now that my gut suspicion is confirmed by someone who knows what they’re talking about. If I even mention a mental health professional to Dad, I’ll cause a nuclear blow-up at home. But I need to know what his fucking problem is. I’ve spent too much time trying to bow to his needs when I’m the one paying his goddamn bills and giving him a cushy retirement.
My blood boils. Who cares if he yells at me? What’s he going to do, shove me into a wall? He was able to get away with that when I was a scrawny thirteen-year-old, but not now. I’m sick of this bullshit. I’ve let him get away with it too long. Yes, he is my father, but he is also a shitty human being. My duty to him as his only son can go fuck itself. I grip my knee so I won’t explode.
“Are you okay, Mr. King?” Dr. Kim asks, his brow furrowing.
“Yes, sorry.” I force a smile, which probably comes out as a grimace. “Is this something you’ve come across before?”
“Not directly, but cases aren’t unheard of. A version of the disorder has been in the news recently. Have you heard of Munchausen syndrome by proxy?”
I shake my head.
“It’s a disorder where someone like a child’s parent pretends that their child is sick, forcing them through various unneeded medical tests or making them ill with drugs. It’s not common, but it’s an attention-seeking behavior that hasn’t been explored deeply. Your father might feel the need to be the victim to get sympathy points or make people treat him a certain way.”
“Shit,” I mutter.
“Yeah.” Dr. Kim gives me a sympathetic look. “I’m really sorry, Ash.”
“Don’t worry about it. This has been really helpful. Thank you.”
“Not a problem. Please let me know if I can help out. I can provide some names for psychiatrists if he’s amenable to that idea.” He stands. “I’m guessing he probably won’t like what I’ve told you.”
“He definitely won’t. But I won’t tell him that you told me.” I stand too. “Not that he could do anything about it.”
Dr. Kim chuckles. “Well, I’ll keep an ear out for any updates.”
I thank him again and leave, calling Nora before I call a car. She doesn’t need to be around for the fight that’s about to go down, so I ask her to go run some errands. I have the cab driver drop me off down the block so I can surprise Dad. It was my go-to high school sneak-out move in every house we ever lived in—find the way into the basement, then get to the higher floors. Thankfully, Dad is a creature of habit, and always gets houses with cellars and basements to keep the laundry area separate from the rest of the house.
I make my way through the back garden, then shimmy into the basement cellar through the small window there. The lock is easy to jimmy free if you know what it looks like on the inside. Hopefully I’m not too big to squeeze through the window.
It’s a tight fit, but I make it. I quietly walk up the stairs, my steps masked by the sound of the washing machine and dryer, and slip the door open, which leads into the kitchen.
That’s where I find him, standing and looking in the fridge like nothing is wrong, nibbling on a granola bar. Isn’t this the same man who says that standing up is painful? The one with no appetite? I watch him for a few moments, debating when to step in. When I shift my weight, the floor creaks and Dad jumps, clutching the counter.
“The fuck is the matter with you, Ashton?” Dad rasps, clutching his chest. “Where did you come from?”
“When did you start walking so easily again? And glad to see your appetite is back.” I walk in and lean against the center island, sizing Dad up. He’s gotten a tiny bit shorter with age. Looking at his face is like looking into a mirror in the future.
“Sometimes I have good days,” he says, suddenly looking weaker.
“Oh cut the bullshit, Dad. I talked to your doctor, and he said that he thinks you’re exaggerating all of your symptoms for some reason,” I snap, my voice echoing off of the pristine white cabinets.
Dad’s face twists in anger. “Oh, did he? What kind of bullshit doctor did you pay for?”
“I didn’t pick the guy. I would have a long time ago if I’d known that someone could piece together your weird little scheme.” I scan his body. He’s lost so much body fat that his lingering muscle makes him look sinewy. “What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m sick, goddamn it.” He grips the edge of the counter. “I can’t believe you would take some person you don’t know’s opinion over my actual life.”
I laugh. “Maybe it’s because I know you that I value his opinion over yours. What he said just confirmed what I had been thinking for a while. You seemed to get worse whenever you wanted to convince me of something, like taking my company public. You disregarded the advice of your doctors after getting out of the hospital, like asking for a damn bagel after being hospitalized for hyperglycemia. And there were all the times you purposefully kept me and Nora in the dark about your condition.”
He just stares at me, his face unreadable. He sits on a stool.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” I ask, feeling myself choke up all of a sudden.
“Maybe.”
“How’d you do it? How’d you fake some of the tests?” I ask.
He sighs like I’ve asked him how he finished up a DIY project on a budget. “Google has the answers to everything these days.”
“That’s fucking insane.”
“I wouldn’t have had to do it if you had just followed what I fucking said.” He smacks his palm on the countertop. “Don’t you understand that you could be so much more? So much richer, so much more famous. You could be the son I’d always dreamed of.”
I feel so gutted that I have to sit down on a stool too, putting one in between us. He has never gotten so close to flat-out saying that I’m not enough before. It hurts more than I have ever imagined in my bad day dreams. I look up at him, his green eyes cold, my hands shaking. I’m just a pawn to him, an extension of what he could have been in some alternate universe where he wasn’t a greedy son of a bitch.
“So somehow graduating from a top university, becoming a Navy Seal, and building a billion-dollar company wasn’t enough?” I spit, actually laughing at how absurd it sounds. Because it is.
I expect him to be chastened at that, but he just throws his hands up in the air. “If you’re that close to perfection, you’re going to notice any little cracks in the veneer. So no, it wasn’t quite enough.”
“Wow,” is all I can say. How can I be related to this man? I don’t have to worry about being just as bad of a father as my own is. The bar is so low that it’s underground. I might doubt myself, but I don’t doubt myself that much. “Okay, that’s all I needed to know.”
I get up and walk outside. Dad doesn’t bother to follow me.
Once I get in a car back into Brooklyn, I call Nora and tell her that we no longer need her services, offering to connect her with a new job with a great reference and promising to provide her pay while she searches for something else. I cancel the meal delivery I’ve arranged for him, along with the weekly massage therapist. I stop myself at cutting off the autopay on his bills. I can fix that later. He has a retirement fund that hasn’t been touched because I’m handling everything. He’ll survive.
Not that I’m ever going to talk to him again to see how he’s doing. He’s wasted enough of my time, and I’m done wasting my precious ti
me caring what that fucking sociopath thinks of me.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Briony
I wake up to some texts from Zara. My eyes fly open—am I late for work? I groan and roll onto my side, unlocking my phone. I’ve overslept my alarm by a little bit, but I still have time to lounge around.
Check the BloomBrightly email.
Like, once you’re awake enough to process information.
I get up and pee, then climbed back into bed, snuggling with Chunk. I click over to the BloomBrightly email address we both have access to and opened up the first email from Modern New York Bride.
Zara agreed to talking with them, obviously, but she asked who had referred us to them.
Hi there, Zara,
We got the tip from Ashton King. It was sort of a roundabout way—like friends of friends of friends led him to us—but we’re so glad that he did! Please let me know what times work for the two of you.
All the best,
Macy
I blink, then lay back down. I put my phone down, then pick it back up again, staring blankly at the email.
He remembers how much the magazine means to me. He’s done something I haven’t been able to get done in literal years, and it’s going to make such a huge difference.
I tear up. God, it is way, way too early for this much emotion. This is how he’s going to make it right? Because he’s doing a damn good job. I want to text him and thank him, but I hold myself back. I text Zara instead.
I don’t know what to say, I text, pressing my hand to my belly.
He must miss you, Zara replies. Or he’s just trying to get your attention.
He’s gotten my attention, alright. I get out of bed and get dressed, taking my sweet time to leave for work. I hardly have the motivation to go in once a week anymore, between the baby and my boss’s clear annoyance that I have to go on maternity leave. And now with this potential big break, I don’t even feel the need to go. Sure, that’s probably a little premature, but I want any excuse to be free.