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Ethan
My phone rings when I’m showering the next morning. Victor doesn’t look like he’s going to move any time soon, just a pile of blankets, so I pull on a hoodie and duck into the hall, pacing on the worn, flowered carpet. “Hey, Peyton, how are you?” I’m hoping she doesn’t ask how I am, because I don’t have an answer.
She doesn’t ask. “She needs to talk to you.”
My heart sinks. “Yeah, ok.”
Mom’s voice trembles when she picks up the phone. “Ethan?” It kills me that I’m not there to hold her.
“Hey,” I say gently, keeping my voice cheerful. “I was going to call today and ask you what you’d like for a souvenir.”
“I had a bad dream about Danny,” she whimpers. “I wanted to check on him, but I can’t reach him. And when I called Cath, she didn’t answer either.”
I sit on the windowsill at the end of the hall, an old-fashioned radiator digging into the underside of my thighs, and close my eyes. “They’re completely fine, Mom.”
She sniffles, and it breaks my heart. “It was a really bad dream. I was so scared when they didn’t answer.”
“Dreams can’t hurt you,” I lie, gently, remembering the look in Victor’s eyes on the balcony.
“Can you come home? Why did you go?” That question hits me like a fist. The deeper I crawl into this crazy world, the more I forget that I’m here to collect my money, get Mom to that specialist, and watch her get better. Because she’s going to get better, no matter what anyone says. And the man currently sleeping in my bed has no place in my peaceful, precious world.
“I’m going to get you an awesome present today. But I can’t tell you what it is.”
“Because I’ll forget.” I flinch. She doesn’t mention it often, and I’m never sure how clearly she understands, but sometimes it spills out.
“No,” I tease lightly. “Because I haven’t found it yet, silly.”
We talk a little while about nothing, until I can hear the smile come back into her voice. With the sun on my shoulders and the faint scent of smoky, floral candles, I can pretend I’m in my living room at home, watching football while Mom knits, free from Victor’s chaos. What scares me the most is that I’m not entirely happy about it.
Since I’m up, I descend in the elevator to get a quiet coffee in the breakfast nook I spotted last night. Trying not to disturb the middle-aged men with their newspapers, I grab an espresso and sit by the window. It looks out toward the pool, and I feel shame heat my face as I watch an employee scoop leaves out of the water.
The chair across from me creaks and I look up into Gray’s studied, permanently disapproving expression. He always looks perfect, not a hair out of place, suit pressed. Staring at me over the rim of his cup, he sits back. “How is he?”
Everything flashes through my mind—the team, the coke, the balcony, the yacht, the pool—and I freeze, wondering which one he’s trying to get me to confess. “Why are you asking me?” I say finally. “You’re the one who’s known him for years.”
His eyebrows furrow. “He seems to trust you.”
“I’m not sure that’s what I’d call it.”
A ghost of a smile. “You have his attention, and that’s the best any of us can hope for.” After a long moment, he speaks again. “I want him to make it through this alive. Please come to me if you need help.”
“I have a question.”
“Hm?” He looks a little surprised.
“What’s wrong with him?”
His frown isn’t quick enough to hide the split-second hesitation. “He passed a clean bill of physical and sexual health right before the trip.”
I stiffen, wondering why he felt the need to be so specific, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
Drinking the last of his coffee, he sets his cup down firmly. “To be frank, Ethan, I wish to God I knew. Over the years I've known him, he's changed in front of my eyes from what you saw on TV to...this. There are gaps in his life, blanks, things that don’t make sense. But he won’t tell me.”
My heart’s beating faster. “Like what?”
He catches himself. “It’s not my place to share. If he truly trusts you, you’ll find them for yourself. And maybe you’ll get deeper than I could. Will you tell him something for me?” He stands up, dusting himself off, and lowers his voice. “If he’s ever ready to talk, I’m here. And if it comes down to father versus son, I choose him.”
“You should tell him yourself,” I point out, but the man is already gone.
