Josh worked for my dad.
Josh had a stocked pharmacy of prescription drugs.
According to him, my dad supplied said drugs.
How many pills?
No clue.
What kind?
Mental shrug.
For how long?
No idea.
Why?
Thatwas the million-dollar question in my head.
Exquisite Aesthetics was doing well—as far as I knew, at least. Dad wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the details. I might’ve been twenty-two and in my senior year of college, but he still treated me like I was a kid.
And honestly? I usually liked that. With a shit-ton of assignments and the stress of my business administration degree—not to mention, a daunting future looming ahead of me—it was nice to visit home and feel like a carefree kid.
But even if I wasn’t involved at all, I’d overheard enough. They had no shortage of famous patients keeping their appointments solidly booked far into the future. They hadn’t resorted to offering buy-one-get-one boob implants or discounted BBLs that they advertised on peeling, faded billboards.
It seemed unlikely that he needed to resort to dire measures to save the thriving business.
My parents’ financial well-being also didn’t appear precarious. They’d never so much as hinted that I needed to start paying my own bills. I kept my spending to a minimum—minus boozy brunches—but if there were issues, they likely would’ve told me that I need to hurry up and land on a career choice.
And I would’ve hidden the panic attack it sent me into because I was a good daughter like that.
They went to events that included high ticket costs and new outfits for Mom. They made charitable contributions from Exquisite Aesthetics and themselves personally. They drove new cars. Had a house that was far too big for the two of them. They even wanted to add to that real estate portfolio and had been on the hunt for a luxury vacation house near one of the many vineyards.
None of that screamed that they were hovering on the edge of bankruptcy.
A wave of panic crashed over me again as I wondered if Dad was secretly sick. That he was pulling aWalter Whiteand breaking his own version of bad by selling the drugs in order to leave Mom with the lifestyle she was accustomed to.
Bile rose in my stomach at the thought of him silently suffering.
Calm down. It’s okay. It’s unlikely he’s on his deathbed. He doesn’t look sick. He sure as hell doesn’t act sick. He’s got more energy than I do, gallivanting all over until late at night while I’m asleep in my apartment by nine. Mom hasn’t mentioned any mysterious appointments…
The discrepancies.
I stumbled, that time needing to drop down in the dirt to take a break. It was that or allow my wobbly legs to give out, making me collapse anyway. My brain raced as I thought about the conversation I’d overheard at the end of the summer.
The OGs—the label Wren, Maddie, and I had given our mothers since they were the original friends—had been seated out near the pool with pitchers of margaritas in their hands.
Not glasses.
Pitchers.
That wasn’t unusual. Well, them chugging straight from pitchers had been a new one, but not them being clustered together. The three had been friends since college. It was a promising sign for our second-gen friendship that they only seemed to grow closer as time passed.
The strange part had been the vibes. There’d been no raucous laughter. No playful ribbing. They’d been whispering, but it wasn’t the excited kind that said there was a juicy piece of gossip they were sharing.
The heaviness was why I’d tapped into my nosy inner Maddie and snuck outside to check on them.
