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“You can’t possibly be serious,” Erin says, crossing her arms with a scowl.
“Seeing as I’m the executor of Payton’s estate, and I need to pay bills for the staff, it makes the most sense for me to oversee the staff in my own house.” My pragmatic answer will win me no favors with Payton, but it speaks to a language Erin knows . . . money.
“She doesn’t need staff. She has me, and you just need to turn the damned money over to me so I can take care of my family.”
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself from saying something I will regret about the fucking money.
“Payton”—I pause—“what would you like to do?”
This might not be the right course of action. Her sister might railroad her into going back with her, but at the same time, after everything I’ve put Payton through, I feel strongly that I need to give her the choice.
She turns to her sister, and for a brief second, my heart races a little bit faster. What that means, well, I can’t read into that right now. Instead, I wait for her answer.
“I’m staying with Trent.”
“What?” Erin shouts, and I take a protective step closer to Payton.
“Erin, this makes the most sense, seeing as he’s in charge of my money,” she points out. “He can get me the best help. Round-the-clock nurses. I just feel like my healing would be better off at his house.”
“You’re making a mistake. I can guarantee when the cops look into this, they will see he’s the one who hit you.” She scoffs.
Payton visibly shakes at the accusation.
* * *
Payton’s eyes dart back to me, boring into mine. Unspoken words are said with her gaze. I trust you.
“Erin, it’s final. I’m going to go home with Trent.”
“Fine.” Erin stands and snatches her bag off the seat. “But don’t say I did not warn you about what can happen to you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
With nothing more to say, the room goes quiet, but the threat still lingers.
37
Payton
* * *
Trent Aldridge has a heart.
It is big and vibrant, and hidden behind ironclad walls he erected himself. I’m not sure how it took me so long to realize it, but now that I have, I can’t unsee it.
Ivy and Trent bicker over the next steps of my recovery near the door to my private hospital room.
I wave a little. “Right here, guys.”
They ignore me.
Meanwhile, Cyrus has his phone out, growling orders into the device in a language I can’t identify, let alone understand. I only know they’re orders because it’s Cyrus. I don’t even have to have known him long to know what that means.
I agreed to continue staying with Trent, what in the hell did I say yes to?
Now that Trent is no longer ignoring his sister (something I gathered over the past few days through contextual clues), she’s all up in his grill. I think he likes it. I also think it’s a recipe for disaster. The kind that tastes like chocolate and gooey marshmallows but is all sorts of messy.
“She needs a wheelchair,” Trent insists, already pulling up his phone, presumably to order one.
“The doctor didn’t mention that at all.” Ivy snatches his phone from his hands. “Actually, he did mention her legs. To say they’ll be fine. They just need to be elevated.”
“If they need to be elevated, she needs a wheelchair.”
“A wheelchair is flat.”
“Hello?” I cut in.
Still nothing.
If I’m being honest, I want the wheelchair. I tried walking with the crutches the hospital offered and failed miserably. But I understand what Ivy’s been trying to do since she showed up—cement into Trent that I am not fragile. I will not break because of one accident.
I have no illusions that it’s a favor to me, and every impression it’s for Trent. Ivy doesn’t want her brother to feel guilty over my condition, even if it means she has to point out how intact I am. And I agree with her. Dealing with Trent’s guilt is uncomfortable. I never know how it’ll manifest.
I end up in a hospital wheelchair, being pushed by a gentle-handed Ivy. We descend a private elevator and are led out by the staff to a small, empty parking garage. Cyrus pulls his car beside Trent’s. Ivy waves goodbye, and then they’re gone, leaving me alone with Trent.
He helps me into the car even though I don’t need it. I think it’s guilt, but he’s going overboard. I don’t want this to be awkward. Especially if I expect to hide out at his place. We need to find some way to let the past stay in the past and move on.
The problem is, this peace is so tentative, so fresh that I fear broaching the subject is like poking a bear.
Trent sits beside me in the back seat as his driver steers us into the city. My leg is elevated like the doctor ordered. I guess it’s a good thing Trent owns a Maybach. I can’t imagine that many cars would allow me to do this.
