“Do you have to be so good at it?”
“Everything in this life should be done to the best of one’s ability.” I swallowed. “Look, I-I have to go. It’s been great speaking with you, Wynter. I’d love to do it again sometime—”
“How about tomorrow?” Rex inserted before I could finish. “I can call you when we’re having breakfast.”
I gulped.
He wasn’t going to let me get out of this.
“F-Fine,” I stuttered. “I’ll eat my second breakfast with you.”
If I didn’t puke out the first one.
Rex chortled, “You and The goddamn Hobbit.”
“You like The Lord of the Rings?”
“She’d fan girl Tolkien if she could,” Rex grumbled.
“We could do a video call,” Wynter suggested eagerly.
She didn’t sound like she understood how badly her remarks had cut and the Tolkien thing seemed to have smoothed over troubled waters… right?
“O-Okay,” I whispered, even if the prospect of her seeing my expression was terrifying.
I guessed I’d be able to see her too though.
Seventeen years ago, I’d never imagined I’d reconnect with my daughter via video call.
“I’ll speak with you later, Rachel,” Rex said coolly.
I didn’t answer him, just said, “It was lovely hearing your voice, Wynter.”
Before she could reply, I ended the call and, like a fool, burst into tears.
My cell buzzed after a while.
Rex: I’m sorry I hung up on you earlier. I’m sorry for acting like a dick. This isn’t your fault. I shot the messenger, and this is on Dad, not you. Can I call you later?
Blindly, I looked out onto the road, staring at the traffic, knowing that I had to somehow get through the next meeting without breaking down.
God, the anxiety… it was almost a tangible entity. It might as well have taken a seat beside me in the car.
My cell flashed again.
Rex: I’m sorry I fucked up.
THIRTY-SEVEN
REX
“Are you going to her gala?”
My mind was torn in three different directions—Dad’s will, then the fact that Kendra was my fucking half-sister, and Rachel and that conversation where she’d sounded so fucking young that it reminded me of being in the clubhouse’s crawl space back in the day.
When Wynter asked me that as we walked toward the coffee shop where she worked, I turned to look at her. “No.”
“Why not?”
“You have to be invited to these things,” I said with a laugh.
“No, you don’t.” Her brow puckered. “You have to pay for a seat, don’t you? At least, that’s what happened in House of Cards.”
“You watch political series?”
She shrugged. “It was enjoyable.”
“Not factual,” I pointed out, knowing how she felt about that.
Yesterday, I’d had a diatribe/lecture about a kid in her ethics class who’d rewritten the whys and hows of the US invasion in Iraq and how he’d gotten an A grade from the teacher.
Wynter liked facts.
It amused me because it was one way in which she was very different from her parents.
Rachel and I blurred facts for a living. I broke laws and she bent them to protect my liberty.
“Still fun,” she disregarded. “Why aren’t you going? It sounds like this charity is important to her.”
“Once upon a time, my business used to be her sole client.”
She frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“She figured out a workaround. I couldn’t argue with her doing charity work, so she started the foundations. Then, because your mom is canny as hell, she figured out how to get extra clients.”
“Does she need the money?”
“No, she likes the challenge.”
Understanding blossomed in her eyes. “I can understand that.”
“Plus, she’s always working. She never stops.”
“She sounded tired.”
She had, hadn’t she?
“You were kinda mean to her.”
I started to argue, “I didn’t say much—”
“You didn’t have to. Words aren’t the only means of hurting people out there. Tone is one thing, actions another.”
Another lecture.
I didn’t usually mind, but this time, I felt bad.
I’d hung up the fucking phone on her. I’d literally shot the goddamn messenger, when she hadn’t done anything to hurt me. Not intentionally anyway.
With a guilty sigh, I reached for my phone and typed out:
Rex: I’m sorry I hung up on you. I’m sorry for acting like a dick. This isn’t your fault. I shot the messenger, and this is on Dad, not you. Can I call you later?
Wynter, as nosy as her mom, peered over and read the message. I saw her satisfied smile and had to shake my head over it.
We both saw the two ticks turn blue, but when Rachel didn’t reply, I grimaced.
“You must have really hurt her feelings.” Wynter emphasized the ‘really.’
I heaved a sigh.
We carried on walking in silence for a few minutes, then she battered me again by asking shyly, “Do you think she liked me?”
We didn’t really touch, but I raised my arm and cautiously curved it around her shoulder. She didn’t back off and only peeped those chestnut eyes of hers up at me, her nerves clear.
“I know she did,” I told her.
Her grin made me feel as if the sun had come out from behind the clouds after a month of darkness.
Something that I could only liken to giddiness overcame her as she bubbled and effused about the short conversation with her birth mother.
It took me aback because I knew Rachel. Stressed, calm, drunk, unhappy, happy, pissed, grief-stricken. I knew her.
That had been anxious Rachel.
She’d been taut and nervous, fumbling over her words where she was usually as sharp as a scalpel, capable of slicing up a person’s bullshit better than a butcher could carve up a side of beef.
Wynter didn’t know her mom though.
She clearly wanted to.
When we made it to the coffee shop, Wynter repeating and rehashing most of that awkward conversation, I just smiled and kept the ball rolling so she had someone to bounce it off of.
I took a seat as she shuffled inside to put on the apron she wore, and a few minutes later, she brought out my regular order of a triple-shot espresso.
Rachel, in that time, had yet to message me back.
As Wynter placed my drink on the side, I asked, “Did you get yourself a sandwich?”
Her cheeks burned. “Thanks, Rex.”
I didn’t look at her, just typed out:
Rex: I’m sorry I fucked up.
“You don’t have to thank me for food. Thought we agreed on that.” I cast her a look and saw her nod.
“I-I’m not hungry yet—”
I arched a disbelieving brow at her.
“No. Really. I had a big lunch.” This kid, I swore, I had no idea where she packed it all. “But, later, when it’s my break, I’ll come and eat with you, okay?”
“Sounds like a plan.”