But financial freedom became a reality—slowly. He started shopping for name brands. And then he had enough for savings. And then he took over a couple of his parents’ utility bills, and then he had enough for a car. And then, when the percentage his loans were taking didn’t put a dent in bank account, Julian took him by the shoulders and gave him a gentle shake.
“You have enough for a house, Ilan. It’s time to get rid of this apartment and live the life you were meant to live.”
And maybe that’s why his chest ached. Because the last time he’d done this—which was also the first time—he hadn’t been alone. He and Julian had stayed up all night looking at real estate listings and laughing at strange artwork and mismatched flooring. And eventually, Ilan found a little place that felt like it could be his. They toured it, and he put an offer on it, and it was accepted.
And gradually—like a slow drizzle of molasses—his old life faded into something like a memory. His only regret was losing out on time to give more to his parents while they were still around.
He bought his parents a condo and a new car, and they lived in relative ease, but it wasn’t for long. His father died two years after he started working at the hospital, and as he held his mother for the first night she spent alone in fifty-six years, he wondered how much longer he had with her. He wasn’t surprised that she went less than a year later. His father had been her rock, and she was never the sort of person who could—or wanted to—free float.
Her funeral was quieter than his dad’s. Julian held his hand through the whole thing and visited the cemetery with him once a year to lay stones on their graves. And he wondered if this life he was playing at made any real difference to them before they passed. They had always been proud of him, always believed in him. So, did any of it actually matter in the end?
“Cash’ll be fine,” he finally said, remembering that Jack was waiting on an answer. “Whatever will close the fastest.”
“Well, they’re already out,” Jack pointed out, waving his hand at the empty room. “It’ll only take a few days to get the paperwork together if you want to do cash.”
“That’s fine.” And it was. He was staying in a little rental a few miles up the road that was in walking distance from a little hipster bar that made all-natural drinks. He’d dropped in for a Bloody Mary and cringed when he watched the bartender start mashing tomatoes with a pestle. But the heavy amount of vodka had killed all the ick, and though he stumbled on his way back to the house, he managed not to get hit by a car. After the day he was having, he was looking forward to a repeat.
He and Jack parted ways at the front door, and he promised to send the bank draft the moment he got approval. He waited for Jack to drive off, then he slipped into his car and put the top down, starting down the road. It was chilly—tropical winter always deceiving in that way where it was frigid one week and sweltering the next. The breeze off the ocean had a bite to it, but it kept him grounded as he turned the corner and pulled into the little gravel driveway.
One of the neighbors was out and lifted a hand in greeting. He was an old man with osteoarthritis in his spine, and Ilan could probably diagnose him with four other things wrong, but he was trying to distance himself from being Dr. Nadav for a bit. He’d have to get back to his life eventually, but he needed to blueprint what he wanted that to look like before he set foot in an office again.
He wanted something with substance, something with meaning.
Stretching his back, he fumbled for his keys, then walked in and hated how it didn’t smell like home there. It was artificial, oils in a little plastic plug-in that made his eyes sting and nose itch. And it might have been tolerable if the furniture was comfortable or the blankets were heavy and warm.
He might have spent the next few days burrowed under a comforter with a Netflix binge and Greek food on constant delivery if he thought it might take the edge off the chaos that was raging inside of him. But he knew better. Ilan had a good life, and he’d worked his ass off for it, but none of it had come by luck. And he didn’t expect that to change now, simply because he wanted it more.
He was completely naked, half-drunk, and spread-eagle on his bed when Jack called to let him know the offer was accepted and that they could get the papers signed in a few days. He let out a sigh of relief and told Jack he’d make sure to send the funds, then promptly drank himself into oblivion.
It had been years since Ilan had indulged like that. His work schedule was always too busy, and his on-call shifts took up any free time he could hope to have. So, when he woke up with a hangover that made him feel like he had knives stabbing through his temples, he regretted every decision he’d ever made leading to the moment he bought the bottle of whiskey.
It took him nearly half an hour to find the courage to swing his legs over the bed, and then his head spun so violently, he barely made it through the bathroom door before he heaved whatever was left in his stomach. He didn’t feel much better after that, but the room wasn’t moving anymore, so he managed a shower and then found his shades before he stumbled into the kitchen for coffee. The smell was enough to get his appetite going, though his muscles ached in ways he hadn’t expected, and he knew he was getting far too old to be wrecking his body like that.
Dry toast went down easy, and the bitter coffee allowed him to wake up enough to check his phone, finding a couple of missed calls from Julian. With a frown, he tried to calculate the hour it would be in Paris, but eventually gave up trying to make numbers make sense, and he dialed anyway.
“Sleeping in?” Julian asked when he answered, and Ilan felt something soften in his chest at the sound of his best friend’s voice.
“Hungover. I bought a house yesterday and decided to celebrate.”
Julian laughed quietly. “With a guest?”
“On my own,” Ilan admitted. He picked up his mug, then slipped out the back door and leaned against the railing. It wasn’t the best view—the forest behind the rental was lush and green, but the small lap pool was uncovered, and he could see a few unfortunate lizards lying at the bottom. “It was a stupid, stupid idea.”
“I bet,” Julian said, keeping his voice soft. “Get it all out of your system?”
Ilan groaned, then sipped a little more of his coffee. “Most of it. Did you really call me four times to talk about my morning vomit?”
“You are disgusting,” Julian groaned, and then Ilan heard him grunt softly like he’d flopped down. “And no. I was calling to see if you’ve heard from my dad?”
Ilan straightened up a little. “Is Papa in trouble?”
“Will you please stop calling him that,” Julian said, but his usual irritation was absent from his voice, replaced with a heavy worry. “And I don’t know, to be honest. Corinne saw him briefly after he moved into his new place, but he dropped off the map, and he hasn’t called me back…” Julian trailed off. “I’m not used to being so far away from him.”
Ilan closed his eyes and tried to stave off a small surge of panic at the thought of Fredric out there on his own. Which was ridiculous, of course. Fredric was the last person in the world who wouldn’t make it on his own.
Ilan had seen him as a weak person, once. He’d even hated him a little, because he’d blamed him for what Jacqueline had done to her children. But that was a damn long time ago, and his eyes were open now. He saw the way she had chipped at Fredric—bit by bit. He saw the way she played off his vulnerability and disability. He saw the way she’d reduced him to a man who was capable of being so much more, but too afraid to take that leap.