Bad Boy Rich

With an incredulous look, Emerson stiffens her shoulders and crosses her arms with a slight huff. “I love Logan. I love my family. I’m offended you would suggest such a thing. We’re business partners because he won’t let go. I’m not giving up what I built from nothing. This was my dream—not his. And of course because he’s being an asshole, he holds onto it. Or maybe, because he’s still in love with me.”

The words cut deep. Exposing a wound that was surfacing slowly. My silence spoke volumes, my stare outside equally pained. For the rest of the flight, I ran every moment with Wesley through my tired brain. The way he treated me, the way he smiled, our intimate moments when it was just me and him. Alone with our souls. The way he laughed at my silly jokes, the way

he romanced me and opened his heart. All things he couldn’t have done if he was in love with her.

Halfway into our flight, I fall asleep. I dream of Mom; sitting on my bed and watching me read to her. She would laugh, hold me tight, and sometimes, if I was lucky—she would fall asleep beside me.

The voice, loud and rudely awakening me from my blissful sleep, is the captain announcing our descent. I rub my eyes, unaware that I had fallen asleep for hours. Beside me, Emerson is sitting still, staring at the chair in front of her.

“I shouldn’t have said what I said. I’m sorry,” Emerson apologizes, quietly and keeping our conversation low enough that no one else could hear. “I don’t know where that came from. That’s Logan talking—not me. He has an obsession with Wesley. I get it—sort of. He’s my ex and Logan’s jealousy is unruly at the best of times. But what I said, Milana, it’s uncalled for.”

It didn’t erase the humiliation that followed. I had no words to say despite her apology. Part of me so desperately wanted to apologize to her. She risked her reputation and gave me a job. It allowed me to support Mom, and Flynn. But I couldn’t say the words. They were trapped. Buried beneath a pile of jealous resentment that created this undefined layer between us.

“Milana.” Emerson places her hand on my arm, resting it gently. “If Logan finds out, which he will, it will be very difficult for me to work with you.”

“Then I should quit.”

“C’mon, let me talk to him. I don’t want to lose you. Not just because you’re a great assistant but because you’re a friend. This hurts, okay. I feel betrayed.” Her voice wavers, the warmth of her hand removed from my arm.

She had no idea what it felt like.

She felt betrayed—I was humiliated.

Everywhere I turned, I was doing something wrong. Losing friends because of my actions, losing a perfectly suitable job because I allowed my personal life to interfere.

And it all had one thing in common: Wesley Rich.

All I had left was my family.

As soon as the plane touched the tarmac, I switched on my phone. I had nothing from Wesley, a dozen texts from random people in my contacts list asking me about my relationship, and a voicemail from Mom.

“Sweetie, it’s Mom. I’m sorry I missed your call. I’ve been tired lately. It must be the change in weather. I hope it was nothing too important. I miss you, and your brother. Maybe a trip back home might be in order. I know you’re busy but maybe Grandpapa can come over and cook for us. We’ll talk soon. I love you.”

Around me, voices call my name. My vision is blurred; spots of colors that make no images or sense. Everything is echoing. I squeeze my eyes shut, ignoring it all, and shutting down the noise by covering my ears.

“I know you’re busy but maybe Grandpapa can come over and cook for us.”

“Grandpapa…grandpapa…”

He’s gone.

He’s a memory.

And just like that—my nightmare began.

Mom’s Alzheimer’s was fast becoming a reality.

“What you’ve experienced is called a panic attack.”

The doctor—summoned to our hotel by a worried Emerson—explains how stress is a huge element and my first, yet short, panic attack—was induced by everything going on in my life that overwhelmed me and snowballed into one intense moment.

She spoke in great depth about well-being, the measures I needed to take in order to reduce, if not stop, this from happening again. She called them triggers. Something, a warning sign, that would prompt me to find a coping mechanism before I reached that point again.

I understood, but so much of what she said seemed far-fetched and unreasonable. So I had some personal problems. I wasn’t a kid, I could face these problems and move on. I didn’t need help from professionals nor did I need to schedule an appointment with some overly expensive doctor, who would listen to me talk for an hour and charge me a fortune.

Doctor Peterson prescribed some medication and recommended I spend the day resting. That piece of advice—I welcomed with open arms.

Emerson listens attentively, asking questions on my behalf while I continue to lay here like a vegetable. I was exhausted. My limbs felt like jelly; my eyelids barely able to remain open and acknowledge that Doctor Peterson was leaving.