There. It isn’t exactly a lie, but it’s enough. I’ve always assumed Marissa kept her mouth shut and he didn’t even know I existed.
“But Mom had to know about you, right?” he asks. “She’s always been weird about you snooping around, sending me presents.”
“Yes. She listed me as her emergency contact, but—”
“So why are you so quick to defend her? What’s with your weird guilt trip?” Again, those blazing young eyes land on me, too much like my own for comfort.
My hand tightens into a fist. “Look, who the hell do you think you are, asking all these questions, kid? The district attorney? I’m trying to help you.”
“Apparently, I’m some rich prick’s kid brother,” he mutters, a cruel smile curling his lips.
Touché.
“Your mom’s a saint,” I bite off, my own hot frustration seeping through.
His eyes narrow. “What do you know about Mom, anyway?”
“How old are you?” I narrow my eyes.
He’s quiet for a few seconds, like he isn’t sure what that has to do with anything. I’ve stumped the brat like I wanted to since I already have a good guess at his age.
“Fourteen,” he whispers.
Just like I thought.
“Yeah, your mom’s an angel. You’ve made it to fourteen and she hasn’t killed you yet,” I say, flashing him a comical asshole smile.
He rolls his eyes. “Ha ha ha. So you’re a funny rich prick, too.”
I try to find my patience again, staring out at the winter smoke coiling through the cityscape.
Be nice, I remind myself. Everyone he loves is probably dead, he’s never had a dad, and his mom’s in a coma.
“How would you feel about eggs Benedict this morning?” I ask, only half sure I remember how to make it.
“I don’t even know what that is, but it sounds gross.”
Think, Mag. What do kids with attitudes bigger than their heads eat?
Hell if I know.
I’m racking my brain for more suggestions and clear my throat. Oatmeal, then, with apples and cinnamon. Fuck, do I have all those things?
Jordan shakes his head, his mind clearly not on breakfast from the way he drops the bomb. “So where’s our dear dad, anyway? I’d kind of like to give him a piece of my mind.”
I groan.
Good fucking luck, kid. Go ahead and he’ll toss it away like everything else in his life.
This is why I wanted to go out for breakfast.
If I could just get Jordan shoveling food in his face, he might shut up and stop bombarding me with questions that’ll only make this worse. And I wouldn’t have to cough up a brutal lie.
“He’s dead,” I say coldly.
Again, not a total lie, even if it’s bending the truth.
He’s been dead to me for years, and everyone else at HeronComm.
To Marissa, he’s Satan incarnate.
From what Jordan says, he doesn’t even know his name.
“Mag, are you okay?” Brina’s voice flutters toward us, sweet as honey, but it’s bad timing.
“Go to work, Miss Bristol,” I mutter without looking back at her. “We’re talking.”
Jordan moves his eyes to the doorway where Sabrina stands, and he glares. “If my dad’s dead, why didn’t Mom just tell me years ago? Why this big secret?”
“How the hell should I know?” I whisper, a frantic scowl stinging my face. “Look, some of these questions are best saved for your mom when she wakes up.”
“How convenient, since she can’t talk. And you don’t know when she’ll wake up, do you?”
Damnation.
What does this boy want from me? Grump is my state of being, even if this voice gnaws at the back of my brain, wishing I could do so much better for him.
For everyone.
Brina, undeterred, walks in and stands beside me then.
“Are you guys okay?” she asks again, her voice so soft, her eyes so haunting.
It breaks me as I look at her, this venom in my heart rupturing like a boil.
“I told you once, we don’t need your help. Get your ass moving and do your job like we discussed! You’re my EA. I need you at the office. Not here at home.”
It’s like an out-of-body experience, watching my grief, my pain, twist me into this distorted monster barking shit at her.
She blinks several times, stunned, her sunny face losing its color.
For a second, I think I see tears.
I don’t know what I’m going to do if she cries, knowing it’s my fault.
I’ll find some way to kick my own ass.
But this is Brina Bristol, and she doesn’t cry. Not after the many, many times I’ve unloaded on her like a brute.
She just puts her hand on her hip, leveling an ice-cold glare.
“You summoned me here after dark. You made me work until after one on a Saturday morning. And then you have the nerve to attack me for asking if you’re okay? I’m going to the office with one request, Mr. Heron...since you’re so sure you don’t need my help at home, make sure you don’t ever bring me here again.” She starts for the door.