Текст книги "Cardinal"

Автор книги: Sara Mack

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“Why is it you listen to him but ignore me?” I ask Pete. “I told you to leave and get some sleep. Instead you chose to stay and remind me of my restricted diet.”

“He’s a medical professional,” my brother says. “You’re just my stubborn sister.”

“Who you love,” I say sarcastically.

“I … ” Pete’s expression morphs from playful to serious. “I know I don’t say it, but I do.” He hesitates. “You scared me today. I’d be a mess if something happened to you.”

I’m not sure how to react. This is a side of my brother I’ve never seen. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Honestly, I scared myself.” I pull the blanket higher on my waist. “I’ll try not to do it again, if that makes you feel better.”

Pete smiles. “It does. Thanks.”

It’s awkward being emotional with my brother. Maybe he is finally growing up. He’s a manager now, and his apartment looks different. I haven’t seen him play a video game since I’ve been here. He’s a health nut, and I’ve caught him staring at Jules like he can’t live without her. Not that I didn’t like the old Pete, but mature Pete is pretty awesome. Even if he is overprotective.

“Well,” I say, “since I’m doing you the favor of not dying, could you do me a favor?”

“What’s that?”

“Go home.” I shove his leg. “Hug Jules. Get some rest. I plan on sleeping until they wheel me into the operating room.”

He stretches. “Are you sure?  I don’t want to leave you if you’re nervous.”

I am a little anxious, but there’s nothing he can do about it. “I’m sure. I’ll see you tomorrow when they prep me for dissection.”

He scowls. “That’s gross. You’re not a frog.”

I grin. “I promise I won’t croak.”

Pete rolls his eyes.

“Hopefully the anesthesia won’t make me sick. I mean, green.”

“Stop.”

“Just think. I’ll feel toad-ally new again in a few days.”

“Really?”

“Then I’ll be able to jump right into work.”

“You’re pathetic.”

I laugh. “I’ll keep going if you don’t –”

“Fine.” My brother stands and holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m leaving.”

“Say hi to Jules for me.”

“Will do.” He gives my shoulder a nudge before he walks toward the door. “I’ll see you later. Go back to sleep.”

“Okay. See you later.”

The door closes behind him and I decide to get comfortable. I’m finally alone for a few hours. I’ve had someone poking, scanning, or talking to me since I fell over. I find the control pad that adjusts my bed and start to play with it.

“I forgot.”

“Geez!”  I jump as the door opens.

Pete points. “The nurse button is right there. Call them – or me – if you need anything.”

I sigh. “I got it.”

He waves. “Okay. Bye.”

“Gooooodbye,” I drag out the word.

The door closes again.

That boy is worse than my parents. I pity his kids, if he ever has any. Which reminds me: I need to call my mom and dad before surgery. Pete called them when I was admitted, but I haven’t spoken to them personally.

The door opens again.

“Now what?” I groan. “This is getting –”

Latson sticks his head inside the room and looks around. “Is he gone?”

My stomach does a little flip. “Yes,” I say, uncertain. “Did you need Pete?  He just left.”

“No.” Latson steps inside. “I came to see you.”

Really?  I take in my tall, handsome, tattooed neighbor-boss. He walks over to the chair my brother occupied and pulls it closer to my bed. “Is it just me or does Pete get weird when you’re around guys?”

“He gets weird,” I confirm. I gather my hair and pull it over one shoulder. I’m sure I look like crap with a capital C.

Latson gives me a lopsided smile and takes a seat. “So, how are you?”

“I’m good. Just a little clogged.”

He laughs. “Sounds like a personal problem.”

“It is.”

“I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“Gallbladder,” I explain. “Your father plans to take it out around noon.”

Latson nods like he understands. “I’m sorry I left earlier. I would have hung around, but you had Pete. I knew you were in good hands.”

I would never have expected him to stay and I find it odd he would think so. “I’m not your responsibility,” I tell him. “You shouldn’t apologize. You helped me so much.”

Suddenly, it dawns on me how much. I remember the conversation from the car.  “Have you really not spoken to your father in two years?”

Latson leans back against the seat with a resigned slump. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

I realize I asked a very personal question when he lets out a heavy breath and runs his hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “That is none of my business. In case you haven’t noticed, I embarrass myself a lot. I trip, I get trapped in gym equipment, and I speak before I think.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And you dance in your underwear.”

My cheeks turn red. “That, too.”

Latson leans forward and sets his elbows on his knees. “I’m kidding. You shouldn’t be embarrassed about the dancing.” He catches my eyes with his and smiles. “You’re gorgeous.”

Is it hot in here?  I feel hot. I resist the urge to fan myself. “I don’t know whether to thank you or punch you.”

“Why would you punch me?” He looks shocked. “I complimented you.”

“Because!  You scared me that day. My goal wasn’t to give you a free show.”

“What was it?”

“To relax. Unwind. Be carefree. Forget.”

“Did it work?  I mean, until you saw me?”

“Well, yeah.”

Latson looks impressed. “Maybe I should try it sometime.”

An image of him doing the sprinkler or some other lame dance pops into my head. I laugh. “You’ll have to let me know when the pressures of Torque get to be too much. I’ll remind you about Stripper Therapy.”

“It has a name?”

“It does now.”

He chuckles. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who unwinds the way you do.”

I shrug. “What can I say?  I’m unique.”

There’s a knock on the door. Before I can answer, a nurse appears. “Oh, hello. I’m sorry to interrupt. I just need to check your IV.” She rounds my bed. “Are you comfortable?”

“Yes,” I answer. “Much better than when I first got here.”

She smiles. She checks the tube taped to my arm and the level of fluid in the IV bag. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“A bacon double cheeseburger.” Now that the pain has subsided and I’ve slept, I’m starving.

She shakes her head. “No food after midnight before surgery. I meant a blanket or an extra pillow. Or water. You can have that.”

I frown. “Water it is then.”

“I’ll be right back.”

She leaves and Latson watches her go. When the door closes, he turns to me. “If I could, I would sneak you in a burger.”

I shift my weight in the bed. “I might have to take you up on that. I’m not supposed to eat like I used to, at least not right away. Pete’s going to watch me like a hawk. I’m sure he’ll have me eating tofu until I go back to Michigan.” I make a face.

“That’s no fun,” Latson agrees. He pulls out his phone. “I’ve been meaning to get your number.”

I’m skeptical and he notices. “For work,” he clarifies. “But, now I have another reason. Covert ops.” He flashes the one-dimple smile. “What is it?”

I want to give him my number. It makes sense. However, he’s wearing a very non-business like expression. “This is for work only, right?”

“And the occasional smuggling of food,” he says as he opens his contact list. He looks up at me expectantly and when I don’t give him what he’s waiting for his smile fades. “Why are you fighting my friendship?”

I try to answer and nothing comes out. I don’t know what to say. There is no logical reason, other than Derek’s cheating put a sour taste in my mouth.

A realization settles over Latson’s features and his lips form a thin line. “You know, don’t you.”

His words are a statement, not a question. “Know what?”

“Who told you?” His tone is accusatory. “Pete?  Or was it Jules?”

I’m lost. I can’t answer him.

His eyes harden. “Or was it Google?”

Whoa. Where is this coming from?  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He stands. “Never mind.” He shoves his phone in his pocket and turns to leave. “Let me know if you still want the job.”

What the hell?  Why is he mad?

He walks to the door and grabs the handle.

“Wait,” I stop him. I’m so confused. “What just happened here?”

He yanks open the door. “Goodbye, Jen.”

Chapter Nine

I pluck the guitar strings in a mess of notes. The lyrics I wrote at the beach came so easily. The music, on the other hand, is giving me a tough time.

“Everything okay in there?” Jules calls from the kitchen.

“Yeah.” I lean over to look at my notebook and wince. “I can’t seem to think straight.”

“That’s probably because you’re hopped up on paid meds.” She rounds the corner. “Are you sure you don’t want something else besides green tea?  Like food?”

I lift my pencil and shake my head. I’m sore. Five tiny incisions dot my stomach, ranging from my bellybutton to my side to just beneath my ribs. The thought of digesting anything makes me queasy. “I think I’ll stick with liquids, at least for today.”

Jules walks over and sets a steaming mug on the coffee table. “Well, you should try to get some chicken broth down later. Or one of those vitamin drinks Pete bought. You need nutrition.”

I look up at her. I’d rather not choke down some chalky concoction, either. “I promise I’ll eat tomorrow.”

“Okay,” she says as her eyes narrow. “Don’t think I’ll forget. While Pete’s at work it’s my job to take care of you.” She takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch and tucks her legs beneath her. “What are you working on?”

“A song I came up with the other day. I was watching a couple and they were arguing. When the woman walked away, I asked her if she was okay. She told me her fairytale had ended. It struck me.”

“I’ll say.” Jules reaches for my notebook. “May I?”

“Go for it.”

I strum the strings while she reads my song. Since my mind doesn’t want to come up with anything original, I start to play “Hey There Delilah” by the The Plain White T’s. I hum the words and make it to the second verse before I realize the band’s name reminds me of Latson.

Jerk.

I stop singing and just play. I don’t know what got into him at the hospital. One minute everything was fine and the next he was pissed. Since then, I haven’t spent much time awake to think about what he said. Do I still want the job?  Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t know if I can handle working for someone who refuses to communicate.

“You’re really good,” Jules interrupts my thoughts.

I stop playing. “Thanks. I have fun with it.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help you with your new song.” She slides my notebook back to me. “When it comes to music, I’m illiterate.”

“That’s okay.” I smile. “You can be taught, though. Maybe you should ask Pete for a guitar for your birthday.”

She tips her head, considering it. “I think the triangle would be better. Or the tambourine.” Her eyes light up. “We could be a two-woman show!  Jules and Jen. J and J.”

I start to laugh, but stop because it hurts. “We could combine it and be Jenniferana. Or Juliffer.”

“I like it.” Jules grabs my notebook and rips out a clean sheet of paper. “I’m in charge of designing our album cover.” She shoots me a sly look. “And hiring the roadies.”

I get the feeling they would end up being Pete and his crew. “It’s not like we don’t know a bunch of guys,” I say. I adjust the guitar on my lap. “Now all we need is a tour bus.”

“Latson could help with that,” she says as she sketches. “He has all kinds of connections.” She looks up. “You know, he could help you write your song too, if you’re stuck.”

She must be joking. “I’m not that desperate.”

Jules eyes me suspiciously and lowers her art project. “Do I detect a hint of irritation in that statement?”

I shrug.

“I thought you guys were getting along.” She frowns. “Especially after you met Oliver.”

“I thought so, too.” I pluck a few strings. “But, he got all weird at the hospital.”

“Weird how?”

“He asked for my number. When I hesitated to give it to him he got moody. He accused me of knowing something, but wouldn’t tell me what it was. He said to let him know if I still wanted the job and walked out.”

Jules chews on her bottom lip as I replay the conversation in my head. “He asked me if I found out from you or Pete. Then he accused me of Googling him.” I scoff. “Like I would do that.”

Jules sets her art project down. She leans forward to snag her phone off the coffee table. “Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Googled him.”

“No.” I look at her like she’s crazy. “I’ve been a little busy getting cut up and sewn back together. Why would I?”

Her expression tells me she thinks I’m the crazy one. “Two reasons. One, you know his first name. And two, he specifically mentioned Google. Aren’t you curious?”

Now I am. “What are you trying to say?”

She flips her phone to me. “Here. Go for it.”

“You’re serious.”

She nods.

Setting down my guitar, I start to type Latson’s name, then stop. “I feel like I’m violating his privacy.”

“Its public record,” she says, then looks annoyed. “Although, most of the reports are false.”

Okay. Now I need to know. I type ‘Gunnar Latson’ into Google and hit search. A sidebar pops up with pictures. I read the words beneath them aloud:  “Gunnar Oliver Latson is an American musician best known as the lead singer, songwriter, and guitarist for the American rock band Sacred Sin.”

My eyes snap to Jules.

“Keep going,” she says.

I tap the link for the Wikipedia article. It says he was born in Peoria, Illinois, and he’s twenty-eight years old. Further down, I find information on the band. Sacred Sin started as a garage band ten years ago, when Latson was eighteen. They hit mainstream radio a year later with their single “Easy”, which I vaguely remember. I was sixteen at the time and wasn’t following rock music. Back then, if it wasn’t pop, it wasn’t on my radar.

The website goes on to say the band was together for eight years, producing three albums and embarking on two nationwide tours. They broke up a couple of years ago.

“Why did they break up?” I ask Jules.

She gestures with her hand, rolling it in a “continue reading” kind of way.

I scroll down to a section entitled ‘Personal Life’. “Gunnar Latson has been linked to supermodels Amberly Higgins and Vanessa Cromwell. He also dated professional beach volleyball player Kristi Owens and singer-songwriter Ariel Allyn.”

I let out a low whistle. I assume one of his women was the reason for the band’s demise. “Which one was the Yoko?”

Jules rolls her eyes as I continue. “In the spring of 2012, Audrey Latson, Gunnar’s sister and band manager, died of a drug overdose leaving behind a five-year-old son.”

I wasn’t expecting that. A lump forms in my throat. Poor Oliver.

“The singer was granted temporary custody until allegations implicated him in his sister’s death. Sacred Sin was dropped from their label, Snare Records, and a custody case was settled out of court. The terms of the settlement were never disclosed.”

The news takes a moment to sink in. I lower the phone and look at Jules. “I know I just met him, but I can’t believe he was involved in his sister’s death. Which part of that was false?”

“None of it,” she says. “Look up the other links. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”

I close Wikipedia and use my thumb to scroll through the search hits. Headlines like “Sacred Sin Dropped Amid Controversy” and “Security Cameras Capture Gunnar Latson At Sister’s Hotel” catch my attention. Then, “Agent Confirms Singer’s Role in Manager’s Overdose” and “Brother Sits Back and Watches Sister Die.”

My stomach twists. “These are horrible.”

I read further and it gets worse. “Singer’s Father Fights for Custody of Grandson – Accuses Son of Murder.”

“Oh my God.” I stare at Jules wide-eyed. “No wonder they haven’t spoken.”

“Are you talking about his dad?” She moves over to peer at the phone. “Yeah. It’s not pretty. Yet … ”  She pauses and cocks an eyebrow. “Latson broke his silence for you.”

The weight of what he did settles on my shoulders. “Why?” I ask in disbelief. “Any doctor could have helped me.”

“Apparently he felt you deserved the best. His father is the best.”

My mind swirls. No one has ever put themselves out there like that for me. No one.

I hand her the phone. “I’ve seen enough.”

She turns it off and tosses it aside. “Do you understand why he would assume the worst?  He thinks you found out and hate him.”

“First of all, I had no idea who he was to even think about researching his past. I was never a fan. Besides, even if I was familiar with the band, he’s changed from those pictures.” The few photos posted with the article showed a much younger and less tattooed version of Latson. Plus, he had a grunge look going on, with long hair that fell to his chin.

“Second, I’m not that judgmental. Obviously the allegations were false. He’s not in jail and he gets to see his nephew.”

“Correction,” Jules says. “He has full custody of his nephew.”

“See?” I point at her. “He shouldn’t jump to conclusions. I never believe stories reported by TMZ.”

“He doesn’t know that,” Jules defends him. “What would you think if your family turned on you?  What’s to stop him from thinking you would, too?”

“Because I’m Pete’s sister and your friend. I trust you guys. You wouldn’t let me around him otherwise.”

Jules concedes my point with a nod. “Okay, maybe he did overreact. But, he’s been through a lot.”

“I see that now.” I reach for the mug on the table and it pulls at my stitches. “Ow.”

Jules hands it to me. “Once you’re feeling up to it you should talk to him. Tell him I told you about his past. Working at Torque won’t be easy if he thinks you’re afraid of him.”

I blow on the tea just in case it’s still hot. “I would never be afraid of Latson. I’ve seen him with Oliver. He’s a big softy.”

“Isn’t he though?” Jules squishes up her nose. “He’s cute, talented, good with kids … ”  She drifts off. “Husband material.”

I almost spit out my tea. “Are you thinking of proposing?”

“No.” She smiles. “But you might want to.”

“Please. My track record is awful.” I take another drink. “I’m not his type anyway. I’m neither a supermodel nor an athlete.”

“But you’re a musician.”

I shake my head and ignore her. Then, a thought occurs to me. “Is this why Pete didn’t want me working at the bar?  Does he believe those rumors?”

Jules scowls. “Absolutely not. It has more to do with Latson’s rock star past. Late nights, hard parties, trashed hotel rooms, groupies like Heidi. You get my drift.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Heidi was a groupie?”

“Was?” Jules pretends to gag. “She still is.”

I try to laugh with my mouth shut so it won’t hurt. I fail.

“I know!  We should watch YouTube videos of the band.” Jules stands. “I’ll get my iPad.”

She skips out of the room before I can stop her. I’m sure she’s trying to bring out my inner fan girl. I should tell her only one singer makes me weak in the knees. Ed Sheeran. My Eddie. Well, technically he’s not mine, but a girl can dream. If he showed up and asked me to run away with him, I would. He could teach me to play all his songs and sing me to sleep each night.

While Jules is gone I sip my tea like a good patient and stretch my legs out in front of me. My feet land by Jules’ phone and my thoughts turn to what I learned. Not only did Latson lose his career, he lost his sister. That had to be devastating, especially to lose her to something like drugs, something that could have been prevented. I think of Oliver and my arms ache to hug him.

“What are you thinking?” Jules appears in the living room. “You look like you’re lost in la-la land.”

“I was thinking about Oliver. How could Audrey risk her life when she had a son?  It makes no sense.”

“I don’t know.” Jules gently pushes my legs over and takes a seat. “It was accidental, I’m sure.”

Just then, there’s a knock on the door. Jules shoots me a confused look and I shrug. She hands me her iPad and walks over to answer it.

“Speak of the devil,” she says. “Mr. Oliver. What can I do for you?”

“I made a card. Uncle Gunnar said Jen wasn’t feeling good. Mrs. Gibson helped me.”

“He was adamant about bringing it down,” I hear an unfamiliar voice say. “I hope that’s all right.”

“Of course,” Jules says. “Come on in.”

She steps out of the way to let Oliver and the woman inside. The couch is in view from the front door and Oliver’s eyes light up when he sees me. “Jen!” he says and runs over. “I made this for you.” He holds out a folded sheet of white paper.

I smile and take it from him. “Thank you. Is it a get well card?”

He nods. “I asked Uncle Gunnar if we could take you with us to the aquarium again and he said we couldn’t because you were sick.” He sits down next to me. “When will you be better?”

“Soon,” I say. I look down at the card. The front is covered in multi-colored blobs that look like the letter S. They also have eyes. “Are these seahorses?”

He smiles. “Yep.”

I open the paper and find “Get Well Soon Jen from Oliver” written in uneven capital letters. On the opposite side of the page is a blue fish. I can tell it’s a shark by the crooked teeth.

“This is one awesome card,” I say. How sweet is this kid?  I wrap my arm around Oliver’s shoulders and squeeze. “I feel better all ready.”

He grins.

“Is this Jaws?” I ask and point to the shark. “He’s scary.”

“Nope. It’s Bruce from Finding Nemo. Have you seen that movie?”

I shake my head.

“It’s really funny,” he says. He looks at the woman who brought him. “Can we watch Finding Nemo with Jen?” He turns back to me. “I have the DVD.”

“I don’t know about that,” the woman says. “Your friend needs her rest.”

Oliver’s face falls.

“Actually,” I say, “we aren’t doing anything but sitting here. I don’t mind if he wants to watch it. Jules?”

She shrugs. “Sounds good to me. I think we might even have some popcorn.”

“I’ll go get the movie!”  Oliver jumps up.

“Hold on,” the woman says. “I still have laundry to take care of upstairs. I’m supposed to be watching you, not these ladies.”

“You can leave him with us, Mrs. Gibson,” Jules says. “Go do what you have to do. He’ll be fine here.”

“You’re sure?” she asks. “I don’t want to impose.”

“Absolutely.”

Oliver leaves with his babysitter to get the DVD and Jules heads to find popcorn. “I’m making you chicken broth,” she hollers to me from the kitchen.

Twenty minutes later Oliver returns with the movie. We hit the lights, get settled on the couch, and press play on the remote. Oliver sits next to me, sharing the bowl of popcorn with Jules as I now sip broth instead of tea. The opening scene shows a clownfish couple joking around at their new sea anemone home. They’re expecting tons of fish babies. It’s cute and playful, until tragedy strikes.

This is awful, I think. We’re not even ten minutes in. I shoot Jules a worried look over Oliver’s head. Should he be watching this?  I know it’s supposed to be a kid’s movie, but come on. Oliver lost his own mother in real life. “O,” I say. “I thought you said this was funny.”

“It is,” he says. “Just wait.”

To the kid’s credit, the story does get better as it progresses. Dory cracks me up, along with the surfer sea turtles. Oliver giggles uncontrollably at the sea gulls, then again when Nemo’s new friends attack a little girl named Darla.

By the end of the movie I’m emotionally invested. I can’t stop myself from tearing up. I glance at Jules and notice she’s having the same problem. She wipes beneath her eyes as I try to blink my tears away. Damn Disney movies. Is it their goal to turn people into emotional wrecks?  I remember when I saw Bambi as a kid. I was so scarred that I forbid my father to hunt that fall. Of course he didn’t listen. When he brought home a doe I refused to eat the venison in protest.

When the movie ends, I look down at Oliver. He’s sound asleep against my side. I could have sworn he was awake a second ago, when he scooted closer to me.

Jules gets up and turns off the TV. She glances from Oliver to me and whispers, “I’ll go tell Mrs. Gibson the movie is over.”

Oliver looks so peaceful I don’t have the heart to wake him. “Tell her he’s asleep. I doubt she’ll be able to carry him. We’ll take him home in the morning.”

“You sure?” Jules asks. “I don’t think you can stand without moving him.”

I nod. “If you prop his feet up I think he’ll slide down on his side.”

Jules moves Oliver’s legs and my idea works. He snuggles down into the couch cushions on his own. Jules finds a blanket for him while I stand and carefully stretch. I think about moving to my own bed, but don’t want to leave the kid all alone. What if he wakes up in the middle of the night and freaks out when he’s not in his room?

“I’m going to sleep out here,” I tell Jules. “I don’t want him to wake up and get scared.”

“As long as you’re comfortable.” She gives me a warning look. “I don’t need you busting a stitch.”

She leaves to inform Mrs. Gibson of our plan and I head to the bathroom for another pain pill. After I drink half a glass of water, I crawl beneath the blanket I’ve been under all day and stretch my legs behind Oliver. Our heads are at opposite ends of the couch, so I can see his face when I lift my head off the pillow. By the time Jules comes back, I’m barely coherent. Pain medication, a healing body, and emotional cartoons don’t mix. I’m exhausted.

“Good night,” she whispers from the hallway. “Let me know if you need anything.”

I wave with a floppy hand. “’Night.”

~~~~~

Around three a.m. something wakes me. I open one eye and look at the clock before lifting my head to check on Oliver. He’s still asleep. I hear a door close and assume Pete is home. Slowly, I move from my side to my back to get comfortable, then close my eyes again.

Moments later, I can see light behind my eyelids. They flutter open. A shadow is standing over me, illuminated from behind. It takes a few good blinks to focus, and I realize it’s Latson. He must have turned on the kitchen light. He wears an odd expression; one I can’t place.

“What are you doing here?” I rasp in a sleepy voice. “Where’s Pete?”

“In his room.” He crouches down. “I came to get Oliver so you can go to bed.”

“He’s fine. Don’t wake him.”

Latson shakes his head. “The kid would sleep through an earthquake. Let me get him out of your way.”

“He’s not a problem,” I say, but it’s too late. Latson stands and scoops up his nephew, cradling him against his chest. The kid doesn’t even twitch.

He takes a few steps, then looks over his shoulder. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer. He leaves the apartment with Oliver and I’m left alone in the living room. I consider ignoring him and going to bed, but for some reason I don’t. I’m curious to see what he wants.

I’m almost asleep again by the time he returns. When I hear the door open, my eyes meet his. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he walks over to me and moves the blanket. Then, he slides one arm under my knees and the other around my waist.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

He picks me up. “Helping you. You just had surgery.”

“I can walk,” I protest, but wrap my arms around his neck anyway.

He looks straight ahead as he carries me down the hallway. I notice the muscles in his jaw tense, like he wants to say something but he’s holding back. My guess is he doesn’t want to be near me after our last conversation, but feels obligated because I spent time with Oliver. I try to relieve his conscience. “This really isn’t necessary.”

We reach my room and he sets me on the bed. He reaches for the covers and pulls them back. “Get in.”

I roll my eyes, but do as I’m told. Once I bring the blankets to my chin, he starts to leave.

“Hey.” I stop him. “Does this mean you’re speaking to me again?”

He turns around with a resigned sigh. “That depends. Do you want me to speak to you?”

I prop myself on my elbow. “I shouldn’t because you were an ass the other day. Just so you know, I did ask Jules about you, but only because of the way you acted. I had no idea about any of it.”

He looks at the floor, then back at me. “And?”

“Yes, I want you to talk to me. And no, I won’t be quitting my job.”

His eyes lock on mine. He looks surprised, maybe a little relieved. “Okay,” he says. He backs toward the door with a hint of a smile. “Goodnight, Jen.”

“Goodnight.”

He disappears down the hallway, and I carefully roll on my side to bury myself in the sheets. I’m glad we cleared the air. It reminds of my cardinal rule, to do what makes me happy. As my mind drifts, I recall Latson’s goodbye and compare it to his goodnight.

I much prefer the latter.