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I bit my lip, not knowing what to do or say for him.
“Whatever,” he said gruffly, sitting up. “I’ll handle it. Whatever we owe, I’ll fucking handle it.”
But despite his posture, something in him seemed to slump. The weight of the world settling on his shoulders. He had casting agents coming to see him, but that didn’t guarantee success. Making a living at acting, even for incredible talents like him, wasn’t a sure bet.
A surge of anger at my dad then rocketed through me. He could help Isaac out with a signature on a page to erase his father’s debts, but he wouldn’t dream of it. Not even for me. Especially not for me. Because Isaac wasn’t the right kind of boy.
“Willow?” Angie said, as she and the Fords migrated back to us. “I have to get back to school. You coming?”
Isaac raised his head. “Go, babe. There’s nothing to do here but wait.”
“I want to stay with you…”
“If your dad finds out you ditched school to be here with me, everything will be worse.” He shook his head. “I’ll be okay.”
“We’ll stay with him,” Martin said gently.
“Okay.” I rested my cheek on his shoulder for a moment and then kissed the corner of his mouth. “I’ll see you soon. Call or text me if there’s news.”
“I will.”
I left with Angie, my stomach in knots.
“He’s safe, honey,” Angie said as we waited for the elevator down. “And we’ll tell the school…something. My mom can help.”
“Thanks, Angie,” I said. “You’re right. He’s safe. That’s all that matters.”
The elevator opened on the first floor. Two men in suits with briefcases were waiting to get on. They stepped aside as we exited the elevator, and I caught the glint of a small tie pin. An orange W with gold outline. I’d seen it a million times on my dad’s stationary, his computer screen saver, on every letterhead since I was a kid.
Suddenly I didn’t feel Isaac was safe at all.
Willow
I trudged through the last hour of school and biked home to an empty house. My parents were due back in a few days. I loathed how my dad would come back to the news of the explosion and have even more ammunition to hate Isaac.
I flopped on our couch, ordered a pizza and flipped on the news. All the local channels were covering the fire. I watched yesterday’s footage of a blazing inferno set against the night sky. The scene then changed to sometime this afternoon, Wexx executives milling around the blasted, blackened shell that used to be one of their stations.
The reporter, a pretty brunette, interviewed a Wexx executive who said the Pearce franchise had been “problematic” for a long time, and the company wasn’t ruling out arson.
I shut the TV off, disgusted, and checked my phone for a text from Isaac. Nothing. He was going silent again, which was his version of little black X’s.
I shot him a text: How is your dad? How are you?
No answer. The message remained ‘delivered’ but not ‘read’ no matter how long I stared.
I curled up on the couch, ate some pizza, and waited. I dozed fitfully and woke up to an incoming text. The clock said it was 11:36 p.m.
He’s still in ICU, Isaac wrote. I’m tired. Wexx people here for hours.
A pause, then a new message: It’s bad.
Come over, I wrote.
Your parents would love that.
They’re out of town until tomorrow night.
I don’t think it’s a good idea.
