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Farrow and I had so much to talk about, and we’d settled on Monowi.
She still never told me whatever she needed to about Eileen. I still hadn’t asked about our future.
Except, instinct—along with the remaining cells in my brain that hadn’t been fried by Andras-induced rage—told me the conversation would go differently this time than if we’d had it on the planebeforecompleting our arrangement.
Farrow rested a hand on her ribs. “I couldn’t have beaten Andras and Vera without you.”
I plopped down on my ass and stretched my legs out as much as I could, setting Farrow’s thighs on them. “You would’ve.”
“No, I wouldn’t have. Vera pointed it out. At the time, I told her I could fight my own wars. But I was wrong.”
“You were right. You’ve been a fighter all your life.”
“Maybe. But I also relied on my dad without realizing it.” Her eyes found mine. “He cashed out his savings to fund my fencing career. A fencing career that no longer exists.”
“Public opinion shifted to your side. Your academy friends spoke to the media about the circumstances. Once news breaks about Vera and Andras, no way will anyone hold you accountable for throwing an unimportant match.”
“They should, though. I was wrong for it.”
“If you want to quit, quit. Sometimes quitting is braver than persisting.” I tipped her chin up, forcing her to look at me. “But if you’re quitting because you’re afraid of what others think, that’s bullshit, and you’re stronger than that, Farrow Ballantine.”
“I’m not quitting. Well, I don’t know yet.” She sighed, pulling at the fuzzy nylon threads on the trunk flooring. “I guess my point is, I thought I was independent, living on my own, fighting Vera my own way. In reality, I had Dad’s help—more than I thought I did—and yours.”
Ask me for help, Farrow.
You’re not alone.
I’m your one-man army.
Before I could reply, she sat up, dusting off her hands. “Can we head home?”
I studied her face, unable to get a read of her and hating it. “Of course.”
“I think it’s time to finish our Go game.”
Idecided I’d miss the naked French woman preparing for a bath most. Almost enough to ask for her as a keepsake, but I supposed that would defeat the purpose of my plans.
I memorized the row of paintings in Zach’s office as a doctor tended to my nonexistent wounds. The real wounds couldn’t be cured with a stethoscope and first aid kit.
I needed time, but I’d heal.
I knew I would.
Zach orbited around us, fussing over every burgeoning bruise as if I’d picked a fight with a honey badger.
“She’s fine. A little scratched up.” Dr. Sullivan set down his cotton swab. “Nothing major.” He paused a beat. “Not nearly as serious as a sliced finger.”
Ah.
I knew I recognized him. Oliver’s family doctor. The one who had tended to Brett Junior after the kitchen incident.
When he finished tidying up, Zach ushered him out the door, returning a few minutes later.
I nodded to the Go table. “We should continue our game now.”
No point in putting it off.
“Rushing off to somewhere?”
