Stay With Me Read online

  Ben assures her that he’s dead serious, despite still laughing. People crowd them to say congrats once they finally stop smooching. I push my way through the crowd when I find an opening and practically tackle the two of them.

  “Is this why you were acting weird as hell?” I ask Ben once I stop hugging him. “I’m so excited for you two.”

  “Was I acting weird?” Ben asks, looking between me and Daisy like this is complete news to him.

  “Yeah,” Daisy and I say at the same time before bursting out laughing.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” I ask.

  “I thought I would completely blow it and ruin the surprise if I told anyone.” Ben shrugs. “I was just excited.”

  “Oh, Ben.” Daisy gives him a big kiss. Ugh, they’re two of my best friends, but can they be cute somewhere else?

  “Bro, you’re getting married!” one of Ben’s college friends yells, literally picking him off of the ground in a bear hug. They swamp him and pull him away, chanting some fraternity song that I don’t recognize.

  “Now that he’s otherwise occupied show me the ring,” I whisper to Daisy, reaching for her hands.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” Daisy says, her fingers trembling as she shows me her ring. It’s a gorgeous, vintage-style silver ring with some pale blue sapphires around a diamond in the middle. “I know we literally got engaged like two minutes ago, but will you be my bridesmaid?”

  “What?” I grab her wrists and squeeze. “Seriously?”

  She nods. “And maybe you could do some of the flowers?”

  “Um, yes to everything.” I throw my arms around her, feeling overwhelmed in a good way for once. The optimist in me sighs in relief. See, everything’s going to be okay. I’ll just put my mishap with Ash behind and throw myself into making Ben and Daisy’s wedding events fun and memorable. I don’t need Ash. I don’t need that jerk who ghosted me, either. In fact, I think I’ll take a hiatus from men. Intentionally. And as of now, it has officially begun.

  Chapter Two

  Ash

  I can afford to get a car out to my father’s house on Long Island, but I still always take the train. Not out of false humility, but because it takes quite a bit longer to get there by train, considering the fluctuating train times and all. I know I’m only putting off inevitable suffering, but the ritual of standing in the station, finding my seat amongst the crowds, and looking out the window is soothing.

  It reminds me of college, when I actually enjoyed going home. Dad’s second-to-last wife, Ada, was lovely to have around. Too lovely for him, because they got divorced when I first entered the service. I still keep in touch with her. She got remarried to a guy who’s not a verbally abusive asshole.

  I find a seat nestled between a group of young guys going to the Hamptons for the weekend and a couple who are visiting someone outside the city. I place my closed laptop on my lap and whip out my phone. I have a text from Ben.

  Gym Monday AM? Getting my groom bod. He included a flexed-arm emoji and I snort. Ben’s always been the bright half of our duo, and now that he and Daisy are engaged, he’s practically brighter than the sun. So bright that I’m more excited for him than I’ve been excited about… well, anything, in a long time. He and Daisy deserve happiness. Even my less-than-optimistic self can’t deny that.

  I text back: as your best man, can I even say no?

  A typing bubble pops up on Ben’s end: Nah :)

  It’s still crazy to believe that he’s getting married. Not that it’s unusual to go to weddings—we’re in our early thirties, after all—but it’s Ben. The same guy who I had drunken conversations with about being bachelors forever, hooking up with chicks left and right. Then again, he and Daisy almost make me believe that being in a traditional monogamous relationship can be a wonderful thing. ‘Almost’ being the keyword here.

  The last time I had an honest-to-god girlfriend was when I was in high school, and even that didn’t end well. I sabotaged it for reasons I still can’t figure out. Deep-seated issues I still don’t want to address, probably. I was just a piece of shit to the girl—my moods were hot and cold, and I hardly called her back.

  When I dumped her, I used the whole ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ line, which was actually true in that case. She was a perfectly nice girl who didn’t do anything wrong. After that, I cut out the middleman, and these days I just sleep around, which I don’t intend to stop doing any time soon. It’s all the fun without the difficulty of emotions or the inevitable unhappiness or divorce that happen in relationships. Once I clarify what my intentions are, of course.

  Which reminds me of Briony, the whole reason why I’m extremely up-front about the fact that I don’t do relationships. Instead of a flare of shame and embarrassment, which I used to feel thinking about how I’d treated her, I feel a blast of lust. Goddamn.

  The 4th of July party was a week ago, but I still can’t get her out of my head. I’ve only seen photos of her on Ben’s Instagram from time to time, like at her college graduation in boxy robes, or at Christmas, wearing purposefully dorky holiday sweaters that coordinated with Ben, their parents, Daisy, and the family cat — yeah, if I wasn’t Ben’s best friend, I’d think they were nuts—the tradition is a running joke in the family, apparently—. Her pretty face, with those full lips and huge, golden-brown eyes, stuck out to me in every picture, every time. Always grinning, always happy.

  Seeing her in person after all that time, with that white dress on, nearly killed me from surprise. The last time I saw her in person, she was eighteen, still pretty but a little awkward physically, like a baby horse trying to figure out what to do with its legs. The years have been extremely kind to her body. She’s lush and soft-looking in the most feminine way, her pale breasts pushed up just right. I want to bury my face in between them. The modesty of the rest of the dress only turned me on even more that night.

  She doesn’t seem like the kind of girl to show off her body, even though it’s smoking hot, so the little taste of it was like a drug. So was making out with her, how she turned to putty in my hands when I tugged on her hair. How she blushed when I slid my hand under her dress and then slipped a finger into her slick tightness. I wonder if she would be loud in bed. I have my own brownstone, so we wouldn’t have to worry about disturbing anyone.

  It had been a while since I’d gotten so turned on so quickly. The contrast of her good-girl image with that unexpected naughty streak was like a chocolate truffle topped off by salt. The perfect blend.

  I open my laptop on my lap to hide the half-mast I’m now sporting so I can check my email. It’s exploding, of course. Maybe that’s part of the reason why I went for Briony so quickly, despite our history—my company has been growing so fast that I haven’t gotten laid in over a month, a new record for me. Briony is too damn tempting to leave alone, despite my better judgment.

  I can rest assured that Ben will never find out about what we’d done—I doubt Briony would dare mention it, considering the near friendship-ending meltdown Ben had before. And I definitely won’t mention it. Why would I, anyway? I can’t just drop in a ‘Hey, by the way, I finger-blasted your sister at your party’ into any conversation. She is an adult. I am an adult. We can do whatever we want, as long as we both consent.

  The only problem is that now I want more of her. We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other in the coming months, since we’re going to help Daisy plan her parts of the wedding. Ben has the actual event under control, but Daisy wants help with the pre-wedding events. I guess that falls under best man duties, or at least good friend duties.

  I sigh and look back at my emails. I need to focus if I’m going to have time for dinner with Daisy and Briony tonight.

  I make my way through my inbox, sending tasks off to my assistant and answering the questions that are relevant. I actually feel better after I get through the bulk of it, and not just because I’m being productive.

  Our program to train recent veterans to wo
rk in tech, particularly those who have been injured in the line of duty, is taking off. The first class of students have gone on to work at companies all over, including my own, in departments from front-end web development to IT to finance. Seeing them pop up in my email, sharing stories of their successes, is a nice, tangible reminder that good things can happen in the world if you try. I need that reminder frequently.

  The train conductor’s voice over the intercom immediately dampens my good mood. We’ve arrived. I gather my things and make my way outside, calling a car to drive me the short distance to my father’s house.

  He still lives in the house he moved into when I was in college—large, imposing, and sterile; it fits him perfectly. The gray stones of the outside aren’t exactly welcoming, despite the gardener’s attempt to make everything look cheery with flowers.

  I trudge up the front steps and unlock the door with my key. The house is silent and smells like antiseptic, even in the entryway. He always had maids come in, ever since I was a child, and insists on them using the least welcoming scents possible.

  “Dad?” I call out, kicking off my shoes. I go deeper into the house, toward Dad’s study. I can hear the quiet sounds of the TV, so he’s probably awake or has just fallen asleep.

  Even so, I knock gently on the doorframe when I arrive. The full-time nurse I hired, Nora, smiles at me and stands. Dad is asleep in his easy chair, covered in blankets. Even covered, I can tell he’s lost more weight. As a kid, he was intimidatingly large, almost as big as I am now, so it feels weird seeing him so frail. I guarantee he’ll still have a biting word ready to go when he wakes up, though, so he’s not entirely broken.

  “He’s been nodding off for a while. The blood transfusion went well, though,” Nora whispers to me.

  “Good, thank you.” I sit down in the chair next to him softly, hoping I won’t wake him. A pang of guilt hits me—I don’t want to wake him up because I don’t want to talk, not because I want him to get rest.

  I take a deep breath through my nose. I’m here, and that is a hell of a lot better than nothing.

  Dad stirs for a moment, coughing, before falling back asleep. None of the doctors know what’s wrong with him, probably because his symptoms are all so general and applicable to a range of diseases. It started right around the time I started my company, over the course of a few months. At first, he was just tired, but then that turned into mysterious pain, migraines, and rashes. Now he’s in and out of the hospital with difficulty breathing, kidney problems—basically every organ system has been touched. He’s been tested for every autoimmune disease under the sun, every cancer, and every out-there diagnosis the doctors could think of. Still nothing. All they know is that it’s probably terminal, considering his age.

  I stare blankly at the TV, which is playing ESPN, feeling strangely uncomfortable despite being at home. Not that it’s ever really felt homey. The interior decorators did a nice job, but it doesn’t feel like a home, like Briony and Ben’s place did when we were kids. Their house was filled with laughter and lined with family photos, decorated for whatever holiday was closest. Their mom even made after-school snacks by hand rather than just throwing a bag of chips on the counter like some parents did.

  Sometimes I wonder if Dad even thought about me at all when he made decisions about the houses we lived in. Even the room that I stayed in when I was home from college could have been a hotel room. None of my childhood stuff—the maids probably put it in storage years ago—or any family photos. Not that we have any of those framed, even now. They’re probably in storage, too. Guests probably don’t know I exist unless Dad tells them.

  I’m his only child over his four marriages. My biological mother passed away from a pill overdose when I was eight months old, and his other three exes basically ran away from him screaming and never looked back. If I’m not going to take care of him in his old age, who will?

  Ben points out that Dad isn’t exactly father of the year — in Ben’s words, my dad is a ‘fiery piece of shit’, which I don’t disagree with, but still. In my time as a Seal, I came to understand how important duty is. And forgiveness. More than one person I’ve been with close to their deaths admitted that they wished they could clean up some relationships before they passed. I have the opportunity to do that now, even if my actions are motivated by the guilt trips he took me on. I should be happy that my dad is even around, even if I feel like he doesn’t like me unless I’m making a ton of money.

  I hope it pays off for both of us because I sure as shit hate being with Dad most of the time. Maybe the silver lining will appear later.

  “Ashton?” Dad croaks, his eyes opening slowly.

  “Hey.” I try to sound a little upbeat. “How are you feeling?”

  “Mm,” he grunts. “Hand me that water, would you?”

  I hand him a plastic cup with water in it, making sure the straw is facing him. He takes a long sip and looks at the TV again. We watch the beginning of a basketball game for a solid fifteen minutes without saying a word to each other. I’m glad he’s not feeling chatty today. The last time I visited, I left feeling like a teenager again, locked in my bedroom with my music turned up loud, his hoarse yelling about how worthless I was still audible over it. He yelled at me about my company, yet again, and called me a fucking idiot for being resistant to the idea of taking it public immediately.

  ‘Fucking idiot’ was one of the tamer insults he’s thrown at me, actually. It was the same old thing—see, this company went public relatively early and look how big their customer base is! Or he’ll list a long list of people who’ve gotten millions and millions by being the CEOs of public companies.

  I bite the inside of my cheek and focus on the game. Sometimes I wonder what he would be like if my mom hadn’t died. He’s never said it outright, but I feel like he blames me for her death. She had terrible post-partum depression after having me, which might have led to her overdose. Dad denies it, though, and says the doctors gave her the wrong medicines. He rarely has a reason to lie about anything, and doesn’t give a shit about my feelings, but still. What if she committed suicide and he was hiding it for some reason?

  “How’s the company doing?” Dad asks during yet another Sprite commercial a few moments later. I jinxed myself, didn’t I?

  “Fine.”

  “IPO?” he asks, coughing.

  “Thinking about it,” is all I say in response.

  “Mm. I’m telling you, take it public while it’s hot,” he continues. He finally looks me in the eye. His body might be withered and frail, but that gaze is still cutting. Before he fucked everything over with his businesses when I was in the Navy, falling victim to his own greed, I knew he could use that look to change someone’s mind during a deal without a word.

  A strange mix of guilt and anger strikes me at the same time. I know part of the reason that he is all about me taking my company public is because he missed the opportunity to do it for his own company. But does that mean he has to pressure me into it? I want to keep it private to keep it under my control, and to keep it close to the original mission of improving lives. Tech companies these days often spiral away from that the moment someone dangles enough money in front of their faces. Dad wanted to take his company public for the money. It didn’t matter that his role would change.

  It really feels like Dad knows the cheat codes to my weak spots and uses them, frequently. With that one look, he makes me feel like I slapped him in the face for not doing what he said. I’ve been through some of the most brutal training and combat in the world, but I still can hardly stand up to my seventy-year-old father.

  Ben and Briony’s mom, Brenda, always says that they are still her babies despite being adults — usually to chastise Ben after he swears up a storm. I feel the same way with my dad, but for all the worst reasons. I’m still the kid whose stomach turns over when he hears his dad come home from work.

  “I’ll think about it,” I repeat, as firmly as I can. Thankfully, he leaves it alone.


  We sit in silence watching the game again. I’ve only been there thirty minutes, but I’m already itching to go home. If I pull out my phone, he’ll go on a ‘kids these days’ rant.

  “Nora said the blood transfusion went ok. What’d the doctor say?” I ask.

  Dad sighs, like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. “Still not sure what the problem is, but the blood transfusion should help with the anemia that just won’t get better. Kidneys are pieces of shit. Might try dialysis next. Trying some new pain medications that kind of help. Still not sleeping too well.”

  I nod. I know next to nothing about medical things, but I hooked him up with some good doctors that Ben knows from his work at a medical biotech company. Dad hasn’t thanked me.

  “Speaking of medicines, Mr. King,” Nora says, appearing at his side with a little cup of pills. “Here’s your midday round of pills.”

  Dad throws the pills down with surprising ease, burping like he just downed a beer. He snuggles under the covers again, and Nora tucks him in like he’s a child. She is truly a saint. A paid saint, but still. She doesn’t have to be so nice.

  “The pills will probably knock him out soon,” Nora murmurs to me.

  I nearly blurt ‘good’, but I manage to stop myself. We watch the game for a while longer, until Dad finally passes out. Once he’s out for ten minutes straight, I get up. I planned on staying longer, but we’ve already run out of things to talk about that don’t send either of us into a blind rage. My duty is done. At least I stayed as long as it took for me to get there this time.

  I call a cab and get back on the train, tension melting from my shoulders so quickly that I find myself nodding off.

  I wake with a start when we reach Brooklyn. I have some time to kill before dinner with Daisy and Briony, so I walk to the restaurant. Yesterday’s rain cleared a lot of the oppressive humidity, and it’s a bit overcast, so it’s tolerable. I briefly wonder if I’ll run into Briony on the streets someday. As if Brooklyn doesn’t have millions of people living here. According to Ben, she’s been living here for years. So have I, and yet I still have never run into her.