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Naturally, I went ahead and checked her bedroom to see if she was there, ignoring my internal voice of conscience. In my defense, I knocked on the door for five minutes straight beforehand. And that voice was more of a whisper, anyway.
Duffy wasn’t in her room, as I suspected. I contemplated calling Kieran, but then realized I might throw her entire family into the arms of hysteria when there could be a perfectly innocent reason for Duffy’s absence. Maybe she went on a Tinder date and was currently having wild sex with a stranger. The thought made me want to vomit.
No. It’s not the thought. Just yesterday’s three gallons of whiskey.
I was beginning to suspect my inner voice was a dumbass.
Proceeding to the coffee machine before calculating my next move, I noticed a handwritten note on the kitchenette counter. Naturally, it was laminated, like everything else in my wife’s life.
My pulse picked up as I grabbed it.
Riggs,
I booked you an appointment with a neurologist. I wasn’t sure what your insurance situation was, soI paid out of pocket, which means you absolutely CANNOT cancel, because I will MURDER you if you do.
You need to find out what’s causing your headaches. No one deserves to live with chronic pain.
Get your blood work done before the appointment. Below is the number you should call for places and availability.
P.S.
I really do mean it. If you made me spend all this money for nothing, I will do very violent things to you.
P.P.S.
We’re never talking about yesterday. Ever.
—Poppins.
She paid out of pocket to get me to see a neurologist because she thought I lacked the funds? That must’ve been hundreds of dollars. Maybe thousands, with the blood work.
Two things happened simultaneously: I felt very bad for making her spend all this money when she was unemployed, and very good, because for the first time in my life, someone gave a genuine, God-honest shit about me. I’d never been taken care of. Not since my granddad passed away. And that was so long ago that I could barely remember his face. My only recollection of that period was that I wasn’tasfucked up. I guess that Maya Angelou quote was true. You do tend to forget what people say or do, but you always remember how they made you feel.
Duffy made me feel seen, and I cruised through my existence being the guy who slides in and out of people’s lives unnoticed and unaccounted for.
I staggered to the couch with the note still in my hand. Everything about it, from the fact it was laminated to the way she’d finished itoff with her nickname, made me feel. Anger, delight, excitement, fear, courage, and this was just an incomplete list.
I hadn’t the greenest clue what it felt like to be loved. To be important to someone. The story of my origin—ofmy grandfather’sorigin—was my most important possession. Everything I knew about our relationship I’d learned through his estate lawyer. When I turned eighteen and became the beneficiary to all his wealth, I’d met with the man, and he’d filled in the blanks about my childhood.
If it wasn’t for this random attorney, whom I’d met at eighteen in San Francisco when I was informed I was officially a billionaire, I wouldn’t know about Granddad. About Scotland. About my mother being a runaway teen who cared more about the dick she was riding than her infant son (still bitter about that, in case you were wondering).
I felt my eyes burning. I was dangerously close to shedding a tear. I’d never cried before. I didn’t like all these firsts I was beginning to experience under Duffy Markham’s roof.
You’re not catching feelings. You just have cabin fever,my inner voice maintained, this time much louder.Get up and get the fuck out of this place. Go to a museum. A movie.
It was a weekday, and Duffy was probably out all day, running around between job interviews. Her hunger to survive alarmed me. Her entire life was planned around finding a good job, a partner who could provide for her, and opportunities to get ahead. She wasn’t ambitious. She was scared. Her past experience had left her scarred. She was hungry, even when her stomach was full. I would never know what that felt like.
I hopped in the shower, put on some clothes afterward, and went downstairs. My phone pinged with an email from Emmett as I made my way to the subway. Details about the prisons assignment. I stopped in front of a diner to shoot him a quick reply. When I looked up, I noticed Charlie through the diner’s window. He was sitting in one of the booths alone, frowning into his cup of coffee.
He looked like a stenciled version of himself. Sunken cheeks, skin the color of chipped ice. How hadn’t I picked up on that yesterday when I ran into him in the hallway? But the answer was obvious—I was too busy having a meltdown about my nonexistent relationship with my fake wife.
He hadn’t seen me. I could atone for the way I blew him off yesterday. Walk inside. Buy him a meal. Ask if everything was all right.
Get attached.
Thing was, I was already feeling all kinds of emotions toward the woman I was living with. Adding another person to worry about was out of the question. Already, I was losing my grip on my most fundamental personality trait—being a loner.
With a heavy sigh and a healthy dose of self-loathing, I turned around and resumed my walk to the subway.
