Broken:Flirt New Adult Romance(44)

I frown. "Is this . . ."

"The deed to the house," he says, shutting the briefcase with a click.  "You fulfilled your end of the bargain. Three months with a caregiver."

His voice is completely monotone. If he's disappointed by how things  turned out with Olivia, he doesn't let on. It's as though he doesn't  give a shit anymore.

I shake my head. "You're giving me the house? Just like that?"

"I am."

"What's the catch?"

His expression is blank. "No catch."

"Okay . . ." I'm still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Dad gives an impatient sigh. "The house is paid for. You're on your own  for the upkeep, of course, but you'll get your inheritance in a month,  when you turn twenty-five. I thought you'd be happier."

I should be happy.

I should be ecstatic.

I can stay here as long as I want, free and clear. No playing my  father's games, no trying to hide how much I'm drinking from Lindy,  nobody to badger me about exercising or eating right or, God forbid,  "getting out more."

I shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. I know that. And yet . . .

"I feel like I'm missing something," I say slowly.

My father rubs his eyes. "I'm just . . . I can't do this anymore, Paul."

The tension in my chest tightens. "Do what?"

"Help someone who doesn't want to be helped. I thought putting Olivia  out here to mess with your mind would work, and on some level I know it  has. You don't look like death, and you're not half-drunk every time I  see you."

"I'm still going to Frenchy's," I interrupt. "Sorry if that pisses you off, but-"

"Stop." He holds up a hand. "I was wrong to get mad about that. It's  only because I didn't want you to get hurt. I thought it was too soon,  but I was wrong. In fact, I only wish I'd pushed you to do it sooner.  And I wish you'd push yourself to do more than skulk around a local bar  in Bar Harbor for the rest of your life."

I groan. "Not you too."

My father's lips tighten, but if he's talked to Olivia and knows how we left things, he doesn't say so.

"I love you, Paul."

I swallow.

"I love you very much, and it's because of that that I'm not going to  watch you do this anymore. You want to live here all alone until you're  wrinkled and even meaner than you are now, I'm not going to stop you."

"No more babysitters?"

"None," he says, standing. "All but the last one were a waste of time,  and even she couldn't reach you in the way that I'd hoped."

"Dad-" I take a deep breath and tell him what I should have told him a  long time ago. Not because I want him to think me a hero, but because I  can't stand that he thinks I've been carelessly mooching off him for  years. I want him to know that his money's done something more than  provide whisky to his worthless son.

"You know Alex Skinner?" I say, not really knowing where to begin.

"I know."

"Well, he has-"

"I know, Paul. I know all of it. His wife, his daughter, their situation."

I barely stop my mouth from gaping.

"When? How'd you-?"

"I'm proud of you," he says, not bothering to answer my question about  how he knew. Knowing him, he probably blackmailed the CIA or something.  "I didn't tell you I knew because it was the one worthwhile thing you  seemed to care about, and I thought if I stuck my head in it, you'd  abandon them just to spite me."

I open my mouth to argue, but I'm half terrified he's right. I really am that fucked up.

"I'll take care of them, Paul. You have my word. It'll be the end of you  getting checks from me directly, of course. But you'll have the house."

My brain is still racing to process it all. I don't give a shit about  the money; I'll get by. Or the house either, for that matter. But this  feels like . . . abandonment. "Wait," I say. "So no more badgering about  psych appointments or doctor's appointments or-"

"No more anything, Paul. This visit will be my last."         

     



 

I don't get up from my chair when he does. "Hold on. You're not going to come by? Not going to be my dad anymore?"

His face crumples for a second before regaining its indifferent  expression. "I'm in Boston. I'm always there if you want me. Always."

His expression tells me he won't be holding his breath for a visit.  Nobody will holding their breath for a visit from me. I've made sure of  that.

"You're just walking away?" I say, raising my voice as he starts to leave.

My father gives me a bland look over his shoulder. "Isn't it what you've always wanted?"





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Olivia


I have my own place.

As in my very own I-pay-the-rent apartment, for the first time ever.

It's a tiny, ancient studio on the border of the Upper East Side and  Harlem. It smells like Thai food always, and looks out onto a halfway  house.

But it's mine. I pay for it using my paycheck, which I get from an  actual company, not an anonymous businessman who can't be bothered to  take care of his own problem child.

This time, I got a job working for Ethan's dad. (I know, right?)

Like a total idiot, I'd gotten so wrapped up in my obsession with Paul  that I hadn't thought at all about what I'd do when the three months  were up. And when I'd walked out the door I had a broken heart but  absolutely zero prospects for getting a job.

So I'd done the unthinkable. I'd called Mr. Price and begged for a job .  . . an internship, anything. After my spectacularly disastrous  experiment with caregiving, I'd decided maybe the business world was the  right fit for me after all.

I'm also taking a few night classes at a community college to get my  degree. My parents are totally exasperated that I've come full circle.  They're right on one level: it would have been easier to just finish my  senior year at NYU with my friends. But I don't know how to explain to  them that that simply wasn't my path. There were things I needed to do  first. Stuff about myself to discover before I could realize that, yeah,  the original idea of entering the business world was the right choice  for me all along.

Anyway.

The starting salary for a marketing assistant doesn't leave much room  for luxuries. Consistent hot water is a thing of the past, and the heat  in my building seems to have two settings: off and try to start a fire.

But I'm doing it. On my own.

However . . . truth? When I see my parents for dinner once a week or so  and they ask if I need any money, or mention that their friends are  spending the rest of the year in Paris and wonder if I want a paid-for  place on Park Avenue for that time, I'm tempted. Just a little.

There's supposed to be all this pride in doing things for yourself, and I  guess there is that, but I miss the trendy restaurants and endless  clothes budget of my past life. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't easier  before. But easy also feels hollow.

My time in Maine, while 95 percent disastrous, also showed me that I'd  rather be doing it wrong on my own than doing it right for someone  else's sake.

That's why things went amiss with Ethan. I was with him because I was  supposed to be. It also happened at NYU. I was there because I was  supposed to be the perfect little coed.

And now?

I'm on the right path.

Well, truthfully, I still feel a little lost. But at least I've started to figure out what I don't want, and that's a start.

I volunteer at the soup kitchen over on Eleventh Avenue every Sunday.  Not because I want to continue punishing myself for past mistakes, but  because it feels right.

I figure the best any of us can do is make amends the best we can with  those we've wronged, and try to do better next time. One day at a time,  and all that.

Now if only I could forget Paul. I push thoughts of him out of my head.  I've been doing a lot of that lately. Or trying to, anyway.

It's Friday afternoon. So not the time for moping. If I thought Fridays  were awesome when I was a full-time student, they're downright euphoric  now that I'm part of the regular workforce.

Don't get me wrong, I like my job. As marketing assistant, I'm really  more like the assistant to the assistant to the associate marketing  manager, which essentially means I make copies for a living, but even  three weeks in, I can see a clear-cut career path, and that's kind of  cool. I don't know that I'll stay on this path, but so far it's a hell  of a lot better fit for me than caregiving was. I think it'll be pretty  difficult to get my heart broken in marketing, so already that's a plus.

Still, great job or not, an end-of-the-week cocktail is sounding pretty perfect right about now.         

     



 

Once I'm out of the subway tunnel, I pull out my cell phone to text  Bella. As with the best of friendships, we picked up right where we'd  left off, as though I hadn't been in Maine and barely responsive for  three months.

As always, she's read my mind, texting me before I can text her. Wine tonight? I'm thinking a bucketful, at least.

I smile and text her back. My place?

Her response is immediate. God, no. My sweater still smells like pad  thai from last time I came over. Heard about a cheap new wine bar in  Hell's Kitchen. Will text u details.