I read all the way to the last one.
My father told me some serious shit. I really, really fucking need you right now.
But before I could reply, the doctor strode into the waiting room. I rose, slipping a little in the spilled tea. Mrs. Ombly bent down to clean it up with the thin tissues from the table.
“She had a massive heart attack,” he said. “We had to go in for emergency bypass.”
“Is she…” I couldn’t form the word.
He scrubbed a hand through his messy hair. “She pulled through the surgery, but it’s going to be touch and go for a while. This was a major event. She’s very sick.”
“With what?” I asked.
Mrs. Ombly made a noise.
He frowned. “She didn’t tell you?”
I shook my head.
He settled into the chair beside me. “Your mother has coronary artery disease.”
“What does that mean?” I fiddled with my fingers. “That’s why she…she had a heart attack?”
He nodded. “It’s genetic. We don’t understand why, but that connection can cause more serious health issues for women.”
“My grandfather… That’s why we moved back…”
Over the next few minutes, the doctor answered my halting questions, though I had a sinking feeling I didn’t know enough to figure out what to ask, what to even hope for. My mind whirled after he rose. He patted my shoulder once and strode away.
Mrs. Ombly placed her hand on my knee. “She didn’t want to worry you.”
My eyes were dry. My body numb. My jaw trembled as I raised my phone and typed out the necessary words to Nash: My mom’s in the ICU.
26
Nash
Showing up at Hugh’s birthday party the next evening was a stupid idea, but I didn’t know where else to go. He’d invited me weeks ago, before my world fell apart, and I’d already RSVPed—at least that’s what I told Steve.
I glowered around the room, annoyed by its clean lines and low-backed, white leather couches. This was Hugh’s father’s place, and he’d had it all done up in mid-century modern after he divorced Hugh’s mom a few years back. She’d hated the minimalist lines, Hugh said, which made it appeal to Dr. Peckham all the more.
Fifty or so kids—the boys in jeans and the girls in micro skirts and midriff tops or short dresses—stood around, some of them swaying to the music thumping through the speakers. Most held red cups of some kind of drink we weren’t supposed to have. But we were rich fuckers, and if we wanted vodka and punch or vodka and energy drinks, we got it. Someone always had access.
This wasn’t my scene. I didn’t like liquor or drugs because both reminded me of my parents’ issues. I swallowed hard as I strove to get my emotions back under control. My dad—no, Brad. He was Brad, not my relative, and he hated me.
And Aya… She still hadn’t responded to my texts. Or maybe she had now—I wasn’t sure because I’d turned off my phone after my mom started calling. Pop Syad must have told her about our conversation, but I wasn’t ready to deal with her. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
I needed Aya.
Fuck, I needed to hold her, have her hold me. She was supposed to be at this party. I thought I’d find her here.
Where are you?
My family had been ripped from me—by Brad Porter, by alcoholism, by sex and hedonism, by fame.
Fuck all that. And fuck the assholes who would build their careers on my misfortune. My rage built, fanning higher, and it felt good.
Right. I’d get even. That had always been my way…to get even.
I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my faded, tattered jeans and stared down at the red Converse on my feet. I probably shouldn’t have come here, but staying home in that echoing house was too much. I’d almost asked Steve to take me to Cam’s ranch. Mama Grace would have wrapped me in a hug and fed me her peach pie. I loved her peach pie. She would have settled me on the swing afterward and rocked it slowly.
I needed that soothing motion, Mama Grace’s soft lilac perfume.
Except I had to see Aya.
Lindsay, pressed into a burgundy one-shoulder dress that settled about an inch below her ass and high heels, walked up and leaned against the wall next to me.
“You look unhappy, Nash.” She trailed her finger down my chest. I grabbed it.
She smiled, leaning in so those berry-red lips were touching my chin. “Want to make the owie go away?” she murmured.
She was so close, I could see through the makeup to the small, well-covered acne on her jawline.
I pulled back until my head thumped against the wall. “Go away,” I snarled.
She thought she was so sly, that I didn’t know about the online group where they hated on Aya. But I did. And as soon as I figured out how to prove Lindsay had started it, I was going to take her down.
“Don’t be like that,” Lindsay said.
I opened my mouth to tell her off, and she slipped something in. Something thin that dissolved as saliva coated it. Reflexively, I swallowed.
“What the fuck was that?” I asked. I turned away from her and spat into the large potted plant nearby.
Lindsay laughed, a truly delighted sound. “Just a little something to get you in the partying mood.”
I whirled back and gripped her arms, my rage boiling. “What did you give me?”
Everything quieted, all eyes on me.
Lindsay stood defiantly.
“What did you just push into my mouth, Lindsay?” I snarled again, bearing down on her, using my greater height and bulk to tower over her.
She swallowed, thick and hard. “It’s…it’s…an upper. To…to…make you f-feel good,” she stammered.
She didn’t look pretty or seductive. She looked cold, calculating…and small.
“I hate you,” I said, my voice carrying. “Understand? I. Hate. You. I don’t want you near me. I know what you’ve done to Aya, and I’m never going to forgive you for that. Ever.”
Hugh sidled up next to me, grabbing my arm. “Take it down, Nash,” he muttered.
“No fucking way. Your bitch of a girlfriend just drugged me.”
An array of phones videoed my rage-fueled moment. “You getting this?” I asked them. “She fucking shoved something in my mouth. I don’t know what it was—what it’ll do to me. And I sure as fuck didn’t ask for it.”
My head didn’t feel right. Nothing felt right. The colors were so bright…and smeared. The music seemed distant. I shook my head. “No. I don’t want this,” I mumbled. I met Hugh’s worried gaze, my wide eyes and pale face reflected there.
“You can’t go anywhere,” Lindsay said, her tone preening. “You’re high. You really want people to see you all messed up? Just like your mother.” She laughed again.
My mother. My throat convulsed. No one here knew about my parents—yet. But they would. Soon. And they’d look at me just like Lindsay was now. With malicious smiles and whispered words. I hated them all.
“Everyone thinks you’re so perfect. The good boy renouncing his parents’ lifestyle, but look at you, Nash. No one will think that now.” She sneered at me.