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“I mean take the job, and when things start happening for the good—trust me, I know they will—then you tell them. You’ll have proof to show your father how you’re making a difference and that it isn’t hurting the Price name.”
“It isn’t that simple. He doesn’t want the Price name associated with mental health even if I’m helping people.”
“What if—”
I bolt out of bed and cut him off. “Just stop.”
Surprisingly, for a laid-back guy, Tom pushes me in ways no one else ever has. I both marvel at this and loathe it. Though he doesn’t mean it, I feel like a coward.
With my back to him, I slide my arms into a hotel terry cloth robe, and when I spin to face him, he waits with a puzzled expression for me to say more.
“And what about you?”
“We aren’t talking about me.” Now he’s somewhat defensive too.
“No, but you’re no different. Look at you. You won’t make your mind up about a job. What’s holding you back?”
“Fuck.” He slumps back onto the bed and stares up at the ceiling. “I know I can’t sit around all day and do nothing. I don’t want that, but I’m not sure what the right move is. At least for you, you know what you want to do, and the chance to do it is within reach.”
He rolls onto his side to face me where I stand several feet away, feeling exposed and on edge. I only wish he said the right move was to choose something that would keep me close. But that’s a selfish thought.
“I can’t fully understand what your father might say or do, but you’re a grown woman. When are you going to stop letting him hold you back?”
If only I knew.
26
TOM
The valet hands me the car keys while another places the luggage into the SUV. No surprise, while in Chicago, she ensured we stayed at a swanky hotel in the heart of the city’s downtown.
I’ve been to Chicago a few times before, but this trip was different. For starters, all those other times, Leighton wasn’t with me. Her lifestyle is so different from mine. I don’t particularly care for it, especially after where I’ve been living and working for the better part of the past year.
She doesn’t bat an eyelash at the opulence or waste, and while she’s accustomed to it, I doubt she’d hate my world. Sure, she’d need to do more for herself, for others, but something tells me she wants that kind of challenge.
While not able to articulate it, she craves being useful and wanted. From what she’s told me about her life, people use her. And not just anyone, but those who are supposed to beherpeople. Her most trusted and closest. Her father and mother. I’d never put it to her quite like that, but that’s how it sounds to me.
And in reality, while she’s needed, it’s not for how or what she can give, but how they can take from her. I doubt she knows what it’s like to be truly appreciated and cared for.
I slide into the driver’s seat, and she takes my hand in hers. A nervous smile skates across her lips. “You ready?”
“Yup. Toronto, here we come.”
With the car in drive, we head for the highway. After we got past the awkward conversation about our careers yesterday—nothing was determined for either of us—we settled into a lazy day in the hotel. We didn’t speak about how things might work when we get back home. Or if I choose to return to Project Miranda, what that might mean for us.
I didn’t say it to her, but I’m not going back. While I’d love it, it doesn’t feel like progress to me, and this thing with Leighton… I want to see where it takes us. We both have work to do, and I believe we’re good for each other.
When I think about her posts on her imjustme account, she puts it all out there, holds nothing back. That’s what she’s working for in her day-to-day life, and I want to be there when that day comes.
It’s hard to read her posts over the past many months and not ache for the scared, lonely, sad, and sometimes angry woman who wrote those words. I wish I’d been there to hug her and reassure her that she wasn’t alone. And since I couldn’t be but I was here now, that’s exactly what I tried to do for the remainder of our day together in Chicago.
The nearly eight-hour drive goes by way too fast, and we’re only minutes away from Leighton’s house on the Bridle Path when I break the silence.
“I’d like you to come to Matt’s opening tonight. Do you think you can make it?”
“Really?” She looks surprised, like despite what I said she figured this was goodbye. “Um, I’m not sure, but I’ll try.”
“Don’t sound too noncommittal; I might start to think you don’t want to come.” Sarcasm isn’t how I want to deal with this, but I had expected a more enthusiastic response.
