His Property(18)

I managed to find an oversized man’s North Face t-shirt on sale for 20 bucks, and a pair of black yoga pants and a lightweight sweatshirt at a store I was pretty sure catered to the over-sixty crowd. But I wasn’t going to complain.

I used my debit card, not wanting to touch the money Liam had given me. When I got back to New York, I would send it back to him the same way it had arrived. No note, nothing spent, just the same bills wrapped up in his money clip.

I imagined him getting it, his face falling as he realized I didn’t need his stupid money. Of course, I knew the reality was that it would be opened by Francine or some other assistant – someone as important as Liam Rutherford didn’t open his own mail, I was sure, at least not packages that showed up unannounced. But still.

I walked back out onto the concourse, swinging my shopping bags, heady with my newfound freedom.

It felt strange being out in the world after being kept away from it for so long.

I didn’t want to go back to my room, didn’t want to be alone, even if the people around me were strangers.

I walked aimlessly around the casino, wondering if part of the thrill my father had found from being here was the people, the idea that even if you were here, you weren’t ever really alone.

Finally, I sat down on a bench and pulled out my phone.

I scrolled through the text messages, fifty-three of them, way more than I’d ever had all at once.

Almost all of them were from Maddie, most of them asking if I was all right, the last ones apologizing for calling the cops, at least at first, before she changed her mind and said she wasn’t sorry, that she was going to keep trying to get in touch with me, that she would show up at Liam’s office every day if she had to.

My throat closed.

Maddie.

My only family.

And the way I’d treated her… it had been completely unacceptable.

I would call her now.

I would try to explain.

But I was going to need all my courage.

I was going to need wine.



* * *

The wine bar I found was tucked into the corner of the casino, part of a larger steakhouse that had a separate restaurant. It said it was Tyler Morgan’s Blackwood Steakhouse and Wine Bar. I wasn’t sure who Tyler Morgan was, but I was pretty sure he must have been important if the restaurant was using his name to attract customers.

I found at seat at the end of the bar and ordered a glass of red and a plate of fruit. My eyes had lingered on the desserts, and the bartender had noticed, recommending a decadent looking chocolate lava cake that that came warm and was served with vanilla bean ice cream and caramel sauce.

I almost ordered it, then thought of Liam constantly telling me to order sugar, to not deprive myself, that my body was fine.

Liar.

So I ordered the fruit as a little fuck you to him.

“Here you go,” the bartender said, setting a glass of wine down next to me in a long-stemmed glass. “Your fruit plate will be right out.”

“Thanks,” I said and took a sip.

The alcohol burned my throat and warmed my insides, and I instantly wished it was something stronger. I wasn’t a big drinker, had never even let myself get drunk, at least not to the point of losing control.

My forays had always consisted of a few sips of a spritzer or nursing one beer over the course of the night, just so I’d have something in my hand to make it seem like I was drinking. I didn’t like the woozy feeling drinking gave me, because it reminded me of my past, and the sense of control I was giving up by doing it.

But now the thought of that kind of obliteration, the kind of darkness that came from drinking -- or, in my experience, from anesthesia – seemed almost welcome.

I took another sip and picked at my cheese plate.

But I wasn’t hungry.

I pulled out my cell phone.

I entered my pass code, scrolled through my contacts until I got to Maddie, then pressed the call button.

I held my breath as it began to ring.

Once…twice… three times…

It went to voicemail, and I started to hang up. I was worried that maybe she’d sent it to voicemail on purpose because she didn’t want to talk to me. I deserved it, though, so I swallowed my pride and decided to leave a message.

“Hey,” I said. “It’s me. I’m, um… I wanted to let you know that I’m sorry. For everything. I’m not sure if you’re not answering because you don’t want to talk to me, or if you’re just not near your phone. But either way, please, call me, I want to talk to you.” I paused. I thought about adding something else, maybe an “I love ya” or something like that, but even though it was true, it seemed somehow out of place.

Maddie and I had never been the types to get mushy like that, which I appreciated about us. We were the type of friends who didn’t need to do that, because our connection and feelings about each other were obvious through our actions.