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“Freya, I can’t do it. I know it’d probably give you closure, but it’d fuck him up.”
It’d fuck him up just to talk to me?
“If that’s true,” I murmured, “then that means he still feels something for me. That means you need to give me something. Anything.”
There was a long pause.
“Sorry, kid. I gotta look out for him. For all it’s worth, you meant a lot to him, but it’s better for you both overall. Those are his wishes.”
Just like that, he mumbled ‘shit’ and hung up, leaving me hanging as the phone went black against my face.
I took a long minute, sitting in Dad’s chair to take in what he’d said. I couldn’t remember his name for the life of me, but I kind of hated him.
It was happening all over again, having my choices yanked away from me. Men deciding what was or wasn’t good for me. Then again, he didn’t really care much whether it was good for me or not, did he? He was watching out for Ash, not me. Did Ashton hate me so much that he couldn’t even talk to me?
Opening Dad’s phone again, I went back into the contact and grabbed King’s number, putting it into my own phone before shooting off a text.
Me: In case you change your mind.
Right after that, I shared my own contact with him, deleted the message from Dad's phone, then replaced it on the desk before kicking the bag of tacos further under the desk as I stood.
It was out of my hands again, so, if it was meant to be, he’d call.
Or visit.
Or write.
Or telegraph.
Hell, I’d even take morse code.
I shoved my phone back into my bag and made my way to the kitchen where Mom and Dad were waiting for me.
“Freya!” Mom called, enthusiastic as always.
I accepted her eager hug and squeezed her just as hard, glad to see her.
Everything with Ash and that guy King disappeared into the background of my mind as I watched Mom take out the casserole dish with the tofu and fish. Dad winced over at me as she served it up, and we smiled over it until the dishes were put in front of us.
Truthfully, it wasn’t so bad. Not compared to some of the things we’d had before. It was edible, but admittedly, I was looking forward to those al pastor tacos in Dad’s office.
We snuck away after dinner to ‘talk about the dealership’, but we both knew what Dad meant. Tucked away behind the doors, he grabbed the bag from under his desk and nuzzled the taco like it was his long lost friend.
“You know she’s only worried about your blood pressure,” I told my father as he made eye-fucking love to that taco.
“I know,” he agreed before shoving half into his mouth in one bite.
We sat there in silence, me nibbling on a tepid taco while Dad inhaled them, before I managed to get the courage to ask about what I’d heard through the door.
“So, I heard you talking when I got here,” I admitted to him.
His chewing slowed as his eyes found the floor.
“You were talking to someone about Ashton. Checking up on him.”
He shrugged.
“The guy lost a lot in a short amount of time. I just wanted to make sure he hasn’t become a statistic.”
