Stealing the Bride

Mechanically and quietly, I put my folios and the flowers from Court into the box. Next goes the framed photo of me and Curie. My hand stills over the one with me and Dad. A spiteful part of me says I really should leave it behind. But I snatch it off the desk anyway. It isn’t the janitor’s job to toss my trash.

Carrying the box, I go to the elevators. Rage, humiliation and frustration pulse through me, but I try not to show anything. I don’t want to be the latest and hottest gossip around the water cooler. But maybe my effort here doesn’t matter anyway. My coworkers stare. Their silence is louder than a scream. I hit the down button. Rodney rushes out from his desk.

“What’s going on, Pascal?” His dark eyes fall on my things. “What are you doing?”

“Leaving.”

“What? Why?” He runs a hand over his hair. “Did something happen?”

“I just realized…” I can’t bring myself to say it. How do you tell someone your dad’s stuck in the Dark Ages? “It’s just better this way.”

An elevator opens wit

h a ding. Thankfully, it’s empty.

Small mercies. I step into it, then turn to face him. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Confusion clouds his expression. But he’ll never understand. He is… Well, he doesn’t have a father who wants him to quit his job and get himself a sugar daddy.

I hit the garage level, then chide myself for the uncharacteristically unkind feelings toward Rodney. It isn’t his fault Dad’s the way he is. Rodney’s always been one of the nicest people I worked with.

Doesn’t matter now, though. I’m done here.

I spot my silver Acura right where I left it, next to a Saab and an empty space. Anger and resentment tug at me. It was Dad’s gift when I got accepted to the University of Chicago. I adored that thing. I thought he was proud of me because I’d accomplished something amazing, not because he thought I’d land myself a husband with good earning potential and a portfolio brimming with blue chips.

I dump the box in the back, then sit in the driver’s seat, my spine stiff. I’m afraid if I bend even a little, let myself feel anything other than anger, I’m going to be a mess. On autopilot, I put my hands around the steering wheel. I should go home. The Snyder Financial Group is not where I belong.

An unspeakable pain spreads from my heart to the tips of my fingers and toes. I put my palm over my chest, hoping it’ll hurt less, but it doesn’t help. I clench my jaw so I don’t start bawling, even though I’m alone in the car. It’s a matter of pride. I am not going to cry over something that I can’t do anything about. It’s just a waste of time.

A coppery tang registers. I realize I’ve been biting my lip hard enough to bleed.

Angry with myself, I blow out a breath. This isn’t helpful. I should…

Out of habit, I pull out my phone and start texting Curie. Then I stop. What am I doing? I keep forgetting she’s on her honeymoon. But then, she isn’t just my sister. She’s my best friend.

I start thumbing through my contact list, looking for someone to talk to?

Not Mom. And not anybody from work. A lot of my friends are also my coworkers. Shit. Ex-boyfriends are out…

My finger stops over Court. It’s ridiculous to call him now, after telling him no dating, blah blah blah. Dad thinks I should spend more time with him on top of that, so calling would be like doing what Dad wants.

On the other hand, I wanted to see Court before the whole…fiasco blew up in my face with Dad. Not calling Court would be cutting off my nose to spite my face.

I sit, staring out into the gray expanse of the parking structure. Right now, I want a friendly ear and shoulder, plus no judgment. And nobody fits that better than Court.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Court

“Your mother… She’s here for chest pain,” the nurse says, her voice slightly hesitant over the phone. Maybe she’s wondering what the hell kind of sons Mom has that none of them are rushing over to see her.

I stare at the high ceiling of the penthouse, prone on the couch and wishing I hadn’t called back. If this were a year ago, I’d be on my way to Tempérane. But now…

I have zero desire to go. What does that say about me as a son and a human being?

But I remember the first time she did this. And I went over there like a worried and dutiful son…

When I check in with a nurse, she takes me to a room. The condition of it shows how Mom’s status has fallen. And it makes me more deflated than a punctured soufflé.