Stay With Me Read online

  “So… should we make a statement or something?” Talia asks, leaning back in her chair.

  “Let’s just wait and see if this sparks questions.” I hit the space bar on my keyboard, and my computer comes back to life.

  “Do you want to have the conversation about going public again or will it end up with both of us being frustrated and hissing like cats in an alleyway at each other?” she asks, smirking.

  “I’m leaning toward the cat scenario.” I look at my computer background—a picture of Sarge at the beach—and wish I was home. Not in the literal sense, but in that I want to be shielded from the world in a comfortable place, at least for a minute. But nothing ever progresses by hiding within a comfort zone. “But maybe we should. My father keeps bringing it up, so it might be worth reevaluating what it would mean for the company.”

  “Ash…” Talia gives me a skeptical look. “Come on now. Your dad is extremely sick and all he talks about is this? Why?”

  “He’s big on prestige and appearances.” I give her a half-hearted hand wave. “I guess he just wants to be proud of me if he’s dying. One last hurrah.”

  “That’s a little fucked up, isn’t it? Look around. Look at yourself, for fuck’s sake. You’re successful by literally every measure. Is this not enough for him?” She gestures toward the window behind me, the beautiful day filling my office with warm sunshine.

  I breathe out slowly, feeling annoyance creeping up my spine. I like how brutally honest Talia is. I never have to guess if a situation is truly bad or not, but that also means that she’ll call me out when I’m being full of shit.

  “I don’t want to discuss this right now.” I open my email.

  She doesn’t say anything, but she keeps giving me that look, like I’m being a little shit. “Fine. We’ll have to eventually though.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Well, just think about it. Someone will touch base with us if we get any more questions about it.” She stands. “See you at lunch?”

  “Yeah, see you.” I watch her leave, then rest my head on my hands.

  I’m no stranger to pressure, but that doesn’t mean I always handle it gracefully. It isn’t immense, but it’s just enough to bother me, like how sitting on your own foot doesn’t hurt, but eventually your weight makes it fall asleep. I want to say fuck it and tell everyone to back off, but I just can’t. But why? I could easily tell a lot of people to fuck off if they were bothering me, but not with this.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I should hold up a sign that says ‘Ask me about my daddy issues!’ whenever the topic comes up. I know that I could ignore his persistent pressure, but god, would I be able to forgive myself? It’s like the worst form of peer pressure, mingled with guilt and a lifetime’s worth of expectations. He isn’t going to live much longer. Wouldn’t it be worth it to have something in our fucked-up relationship that we’re both happy about? I can always start another company at some point, but I can’t have another father.

  I click through my email, sighing. I need to work and not dwell on the issue.

  The rest of the day passes without a lot of pressure regarding the IPO issue. Instead of staying late, like I usually do, I decide to head home. Briony is there, working from home while she tries to pull her life back together. It’s nice having a human around, even if I have to battle my attraction to her most of the time. Maybe things will get easier the longer she stays.

  If she stays much longer. She seems hellbent on not using up any of my resources, even though I constantly remind her that a couple thousand dollars won’t make even a tiny dent in my bank accounts. Unlike other women I’d been intimately involved with, she isn’t champing at the bit to get me to spend money on her. She’s surprisingly practical in that way. She’s been staying with me for a week, and she’s only gotten the basics, like toiletries, t-shirts, underwear, a single outfit for work and jeans.

  “Why bother getting fancy things when there are much more important matters to take care of?” she said at one point, from her spot on my couch.

  I text her to ask if she wants me to pick up dinner, and we agree on Mexican food. It feels domestic. Natural, almost. God, I do not want to think about that. I can’t do ‘normal’ or ‘domestic’ without feeling like a caged animal after a while.

  When I open the front door, Sarge comes running up to me like I’ve been gone for a month. I give him some rough scratches on his butt, which he loves, before he bolts deeper into the house, barking. He hasn’t been to doggy daycare since Briony insisted on taking care of him during the day, and they’ve bonded. She’s even managed to get him and Chunk to not murder each other, though the cat usually perches as far as he can from him whenever they’re in the same room.

  I follow Sarge to his destination, the living room. Briony is sitting on the couch, the evening sun on her skin and her laptop in her lap. Chunk is wedged between her and the couch, protected against Sarge’s enthusiasm. She looks up at me and smiles, making my heart flip-flop in my chest against my own will.

  Goddamn it.

  “Hey, how was your day?” she asks. “You look kind of rough.”

  “Well, thanks.” I flop down on the couch. I usually change right away, but I’m already in jeans and a t-shirt. Plus, wearing sweats and a t-shirt usually makes Briony look at me in a way that weakens my self-control. I didn’t think a woman would like me if I looked like I’d rolled out of bed, but Briony is surprising like that.

  “Sorry, just calling it like I see it.” Her smile turns gentle. “You want to talk about it?”

  “You don’t have to listen to my issues, B.”

  “I know, but you’re usually Mr. Stoic, and you look like someone shat in your shoes.” She rests her head against the side of the couch. “And you’ve listened to me ugly cry all over your house, so I could return the favor.”

  I regret not grabbing a beer before I sat down.

  “It’s just my dad,” I mumble, suddenly feeling self-conscious about saying it aloud. “He wants me to take the company public, but I don’t know if I should.”

  “Okay.” She strokes Chunk’s head absently. “Gimme the pros vs. cons list.”

  “The cons are that I wouldn’t have as much control over the company. I’d have to answer to a lot of people, and it would change how I work when I already like what I do. And if I don’t, my dad would be massively disappointed and never let me live it down.” I look down at the coffee table, not wanting to meet her gaze. “The pros are that I would make a fuck-ton of money, and the company could grow a lot faster.”

  “Mmhm. And your dad being disappointed in you is a major con because…?”

  My eyes flutter closed for a moment. Briony knows vaguely of my dad’s overall shittiness since she met him maybe once or twice and knows of his illness. But letting it all out would be like ripping the stitches out of a gaping wound.

  “It just is,” I finally say.

  “For a guy who talks all about facing problems head-on, you’re super reluctant to dig into your deeper issues,” she observes, raising an eyebrow. “It’s not going to be like a business problem, which you can fix more immediately. It sounds like your dad problems will never be a quick fix.”

  “It’s not easy to rip open a vein in front of someone, even if they’re your friend,” I say.

  “Would it help if I told you I wouldn’t judge you?”

  “What, are you my therapist now?” I crack, trying to keep my tone light. I tried out therapy when I got out of the service to deal with some of the anxiety I was having, but even that felt like I was being too open. They legally couldn’t tell anyone about my problems, but that didn’t help me relax in the slightest. Instead, I got Sarge.

  “No, you ass.” She stretches her legs out and tucks her toes underneath my thighs. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Sorry,” I mutter.

  “You don’t have to spill your guts if you don’t want to.” She looks down at Chunk, scratching behind his ears.
He’s so fat that his head looks huge compared to his small ears. “From my experience, letting it out feels really good. You can articulate exactly what’s bugging you, which helps you deal with it.”

  “Are you sure you aren’t a therapist?” I ask, half-smiling.

  “I’ve just been getting introspective. Losing all of your belongings will do that to you.” She smiles again, sadly. “Anyway, our food is getting cold. Let’s eat.”

  She reaches over to open the bags of food, pulling into herself ever so slightly for the rest of the night. We’ve fallen into a routine of watching TV together and joking around, but she’s quiet, focusing on her computer and looking up every once in a while.

  Shit, I regret this. Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed her away, but I feel crowded. My feelings are my own, even if they’re fucked up. But I trust her, don’t I? That’s how friends treat each other—she surely trusts me, since she called me right after her home went up in flames.

  But the more I think about it, the more I realize that I only trust her with the outermost parts of myself. I can’t break down and cry about how shitty I feel whenever I deal with my dad, or how nothing I do is truly good enough for him. But I still keep trying like an idiot anyway. It’s an unwelcome revelation in my mind, and actually saying it would make things far too real.

  I go to bed early that night after a scalding hot shower, hoping to scrub away the discomfort and shame.

  Nora calls me the next day when I’m in a cab on the way to a meeting in Manhattan.

  “Hi, Mr. King—er, Ashton,” Nora says, sounding nervous. She usually sounds calm, almost like a yoga teacher.

  “Hey, is everything okay?” I give the driver an apologetic look in the rearview mirror.

  “Not really,” she explains, sighing. “Your father’s complaining of rashes, which are new, and he’s been having terrible insomnia. His pain seems to be getting worse also. He wants to go back into the hospital for more tests.”

  I run my hand across my jaw, feeling the stubble. Dad has gotten so many tests that have come back inconclusive. If there’s anything good to say about him, it’s that he’s persistent as hell, even at his worst.

  “Okay, what has his doctor said?”

  “He’s still at a loss, but he’s open to more tests. He pretty much does whatever your father asks for,” she continues. I can hear her loading the dishwasher in the background, even though I keep telling her she doesn’t have to clean.

  “Wait… he’s the one ordering the tests? Not the doctor?” I frown.

  “Well, not really. He does his research online and suggests the tests to the doctor, from what I can tell. Since he still has his wits about him, the doctor can’t force me to stay in the room during the appointments. And he gets upset if I try to get involved.”

  I pause, an alarm going off in the back of my mind. “That’s not your fault—he hardly lets me in on what’s going on. But that’s odd. Maybe I can—”

  “He told me that he’d given you the right to access his medical records and consented to his doctors giving you updates on his health. Is that not true?” She interjects.

  “He hasn’t given me access to his records or let me know of any doctor updates,” I say slowly, trying to wrap my head around what’s happening. He doesn’t tell me anything because he doesn’t have to, at least where the law is concerned—if he tells his doctor not to disclose any information, his doctor can’t. I get the medical bills, which list what services were given to him, and pay them off, which is the extent to which I see what’s going on. But I never get any substantial updates or information.

  We sit in silence so long that Nora asks if I’m still on the line.

  “I’m here,” I say. “I’m not sure what to tell you, Nora. Maybe I can swing by for his next doctor’s appointment and tag along.”

  “That might be wise. He has a follow-up with Dr. Cross in two weeks.”

  “Thank you for calling me, Nora.” I hang up, putting my phone back in my pocket. What is Dad’s problem? Besides 99 percent of his personality.

  Asking him for answers directly is the worst idea—if he suspects an ulterior motive for anything, he shuts down fast and never opens up again. But trying to manipulate him is like some guy who took a boxing class once in college going up against Muhammad Ali. He would knock me out before I had a second to breathe.

  So I need to make it a normal visit, at least on its face. I have my assistant clear my calendar that day and try to think of how I could possibly find out the truth about my dad.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Briony

  The month and a half or so that I’ve been at Ash’s has been the best I’ve felt in a while. Sure, he lives in a gorgeous brownstone with central air conditioning and has a cleaning lady who keeps everything spotless and a kitchen that would make Ina Garten weep but that isn’t everything.

  I miss Zara but hanging out with Ash in the evenings is just the right mix of relaxing and fun. If he isn’t too exhausted after getting home late, we eat dinner and watch something stupid on Netflix or play video games. If I’m working, he helps where he can with BloomBrightly. With his advice, Zara and I slayed our first interview with the startup incubator we applied for, and I’ve spoken with a few of the investors he’s connected me to.

  I’ve even put my feelings for him… well, not totally behind me, but at least into the backseat. I wear baggy, unflattering sweats around the house, no makeup, and trick myself into putting my feelings in the ‘celebrity crush’ zone. I can lust after celebrities all I want, but there’s exactly zero chance of me dating Chris Hemsworth or whoever. But I definitely still lust.

  It kind of works.

  I’m still getting back on my feet financially, picking up some freelance floral design jobs and searching for apartments. Ash says I can stay as long as I need to, so I’m not going to rush into another shithole that might catch on fire because of the super’s negligence.

  It’s all really exhausting, though. Despite how exciting everything is, between getting my life together, my day job, and BloomBrightly’s growth, I’m feeling a little under the weather. Maybe I need a vacation day.

  Instead, I settle for lunch with Ash, which will cheer me up at least a little. I worked from home this morning, so I eventually get dressed and head downtown. He tells me to look for a yellow truck in the sea of food trucks parked outside.

  I see him before I see the truck, looking so good that I’m a little annoyed. He’s just wearing his usual work outfit—blue button-down shirt, jeans—but the way his hair is tousled by the wind, and the way his shoulders look in that shirt is almost too perfect. I’m not the only person noticing. He is totally oblivious to the women — and men— giving him a once-over as they walk past him. He’s holding his phone, but not focusing on it, deep in thought.

  “Oh, hey,” he says when he notices me, smiling so warmly that my stomach morphs into a tiny cluster of butterflies.

  “Hey.” I go in for a one-arm hug, which he returns, squeezing my shoulder a bit. I manage to keep my shit together and extract myself from his grip. “What’s this food truck?”

  “Ethiopian food.” He tucks his phone in his shirt pocket. “It’s really good.”

  “Never had it before.” I look up at the menu. “What should I get?”

  “You want to try a bit of everything? We can share.” He steps into line.

  “Sure, why not?” I say, standing next to him. Some woman shoots me a dirty look after checking Ash out. “You sure you want to share with me? I might eat it all from under you.”

  “We’ve gotten better at sharing,” he smiles. “I haven’t bitten your fingers off yet.”

  I snort. “The bar is so low.”

  “Hey, we used to fight over freaking popcorn like feral cats in an alley, so is the bar really that low?” he chuckles.

  He orders for us, and once we get the food, we settle on a bench, setting the large, steaming trays of food between us. It looks and smells delicious, ev
en though my stomach is feeling a little off. Too much coffee, probably. I need to take it slow.

  As usual, our conversation stops until we’ve tasted everything. It’s everything I wanted—spicy, flavorful, filling. I wish we hadn’t split everything, but at least I get to sample all the things I wanted to try.

  “How’s it going?” Ash asks. “You heading into the office later?”

  “Ugh, yeah.” I slump. “There’s a meeting I should go to, but also, who puts meetings on Friday afternoons?”

  “Assholes do.” He sips his water. “If someone puts a meeting on a Friday afternoon, I just don’t go.”

  “But you’re the CEO—you can do whatever you want,” I point out.

  “I’m supposed to set an example for everyone. If I slack off, everyone else thinks they can too. So my only indulgence is skipping out on Friday meetings.”

  “So I might go in just to seem like a good employee. And tomorrow I’m looking at some apartments, so that’s another blah thing I have to deal with. Everything’s so damn pricey, even if Zara and I split rent.”

  “I’m sorry.” He tears off a piece of injera, the spongy, sourdough flatbread that came with our meal.

  “It’s fine.” I know he can’t relate, but it feels nice for him to say it. “What about you? I haven’t even seen you for two days.”

  He gets up stupidly early every day, even though he claims he hates it and stays at the office late. He never misses a workout and never seems to get tired. But today, he looks a little weary. He isn’t opening up to me, really, but he doesn’t pull away as hard when I ask about his feelings.

  “Just a little burnt out. It’s been rough at the office lately. My afternoon is free, at least.” He pauses, looking past my shoulder. “You want to take the afternoon off?”

  “Just… not go into work?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Everyone needs a spontaneous vacation day.”