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“As you’ve heard, we’re off to Italy next week to create the campaign for the app relaunch. We didn’t expect this, but people want to see both of you—”
I start shaking my head. “No. Absolutely not.”
“One point five million.”
I bite back a groan, grip tightening on the desk, fighting to stay cool. “You just told me I was worth five mil a month.”
He chuckles. “Two million, and all expenses paid toward your mother’s health over the next five years. I know a doctor in California, best rate of dementia reversal in the world. I’ll fly you two down to see him. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll put her in the best care home in the country.”
“You’re lying.”
He smiles for real, and it’s just as soulless and conniving as his fake one. “It’s less than one five-hundred-thousandth of my net worth. Do you understand how small that is?” He stands up. “It’s time for you to decide how you feel about fate. Maybe a freak accident brought together the only man who can get through to my son and the only man who can give your mother the help she needs.”
I know he’s just saying what I want to hear, playing me like a fucking violin, pretending this is anything more than a ploy to add more billions to his billions. “No.” But my voice is weak.
If someone’s going to save that son of a bitch, it won’t be me.
For some reason, that thought isn’t as satisfying as it should be.
“Ethan!” Mom shakes my shoulder.
I lower my phone and crane my neck in her lap until I’m looking at the bottom of her chin. “Yeah?”
She points at the TV. “She set her oven timer for one hundred minutes instead of ten.” The cooking show has framed a fantastic shot of the contestant happily chopping vegetables as a steady column of smoke rises from her oven behind her.
“Shit.” I laugh when she pinches my arm for swearing. Unlike the woman on TV, Mom’s a great cook—I have a fat stack of notecards where I’ve written down her best recipes so she can still make them when she forgets the original.
I half-watch the chef in question cry over her blackened dish while Mom’s fingers run through my hair, damp from the shower. This is the one place I can always relax—except for today. I reach out and grab the remote, muting the show. “Mom?”
“What is it, hon?”
Groaning, I sit up and brush my hair back, folding my legs on the couch so I can sit facing her. “I did someone a…favor the other day. And now he wants another one, and I’m not sure what to do.”
Her forehead creases as she frowns, concerned. “What kind of favor?”
I was going to lie again, but there’s a chance she’ll see me on TV or in a photo. And unlike Scooter, she won’t have trouble recognizing me; I’m the only person she’s never forgotten. Not yet.
I opt for a half-truth. “They were looking for models to shoot photos for an ad, and they liked me. They want me to go overseas for a week or two with them.”
Her eyes widen in surprise, and I feel my face getting hot. “It’s ok, you can laugh. Me as a model, right?”
She puts a hand on my cheek. “No, you’re very handsome, when you try. The rest of the time you’re a little messy.” This time I laugh for real. “Do you want to go?”
I take a deep breath. “I want to stay here with you. But they said they’d pay our medical expenses—nurses, medicine, the best of everything. They said there’s a doctor in California, a new one, and he’s really good.”
Her smile fades a little. She squeezes my arm, interrupting my rambling. “We’ve heard that before.” We have. And that’s just the stuff she remembers. I’ve lost more money than I would ever tell her on the next doctor, the next therapy, the next hope, all for nothing.
“Yeah, but—”
She scoots closer and takes my hand. “You’re the best son anyone could ask for. But I’ve been thinking a lot, on good days, and I’m starting to come to terms with things. None of this is going to fix me, honey.”
I shift, my chest going tight. “Mom…”
“I just want to enjoy you and our little life while I can, not drain all your resources, your future, trying to chase something that can’t happen.”
“I know.” I pick at a loose thread on the couch cushion, unable to look her in the face. I’ll say what she wants to hear, but I don’t believe it. I can’t. She’s just making me even more determined to keep fighting. She thinks there will be something left of me when she’s gone, but I’ve given her everything I am and the thought of losing not only her but myself is terrifying.
“If you want to go, you should do it for yourself, not me.”
“I’ll think about it.” I stand up, kiss her on the cheek.
There are a few dented beer cans in the back of the fridge from the days when I had spare time to drink. I fish one out and take it to the back porch. The sun is setting in the remnants of a rain storm tattered across the sky. Our neighbor’s massive dog throws himself against the fence, enraged that I dare to show my face.
I tip my head back against the side of the house and close my eyes. Maybe none of us can be saved. Or maybe, like Werner said, I’ve been handed the key to saving everyone.
Because Victor was right. Trying to fix lost causes has always been my thing. All of them except myself.
