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The words play on my tongue until I catch sight of my dad. He’s headed straight toward my office with a wide grin on his face.
“We got the house,” he announces as he strolls through the doorway. “Your mother and I have our Florida homestead and we can’t wait to move.”
She’s not my mother, but he is my father.
I push to my feet and round my desk to hug him.
It’s inevitable now. There won’t be a reprieve. He’s moving to Florida and one way or another, my life will change forever.
***
I glance down at my phone one last time before I reach for the remote to turn off the television in my bedroom.
I got home about an hour ago. It was after eleven. I’d spent the evening with my dad. We had dinner and toasted to his upcoming move.
He did almost all of the talking, exuberance driving his every word.
I’ve never seen him this happy and each time I snuck a peek at my phone, I half expected to look up to see disappointment on his face.
In his perfect world, all phones would be turned off during dinner, but I wasn’t playing by that rule tonight.
West texted me after I left his office this afternoon.
He promised that if he had the time, he’d call me tonight.
My phone has been silent all night except for a few text messages from Harmony and an email from Ivy about lunch later in the week.
Resting my back against my headboard, I slide my laptop onto my lap and flip it open.
My fingers hover over the keyboard before I type his name into the search bar.
Jeremy Weston.
This time I avoid all images and zero in on the Rizon company website.
His bio is generic. It’s nothing more than some disjointed facts about his education and his familial connection to the company’s founder.
I go back to the search results and skim them, looking for something more.
Nothing catches my eye once I realize that the man doesn’t have any social media accounts.
I move to shut the laptop but stop myself.
I take a deep breath and with shaking hands, I type in my name.
Lincoln Walsh.
I release the breath once I realize that virtually every result on the first page is focused on my grandfather. The second page too and the third.
I hit the backspace button again and again until the search bar is blank.
Linny Walsh.
I stare at my nickname after typing it out.
“Please don’t be there,” I whisper to myself as I hit the enter button. “Please.”
My heart hammers as I scan each result.
