Stay With Me Page 7

  “At least I’m smooth, eh?” He knocks back the rest of his beer and drops the glass on the counter with a thump.

  I let out an undignified snort. That smoothness is going to be the death of me. “Yeah, at least there’s that.”

  Chapter Six

  Ash

  Briony’s request to stop flirting with her only makes me want her more. I don’t understand it myself—I’m probably just a masochist.

  Maybe what’s making me more interested is the fact that she’d stopped me in my tracks and knows what she wants out of life. Women who aren’t afraid to speak up, even if the person they are talking to won’t like what they were about to say, are extremely appealing to me.

  She didn’t use to be like that. Back in high school, she was notoriously nice to a fault, somehow tamping down the temper that Ben said could rear its head when she was with family. She wasn’t the kind of person who got bullied, but she was firmly in the dorky kid section of the cafeteria, always willing to help someone out even if they didn’t deserve it. She was the queen of the geeks if that was a crown anyone wanted to have.

  Though I’m not thrilled that she won’t be up for another round, or anything casual at all, not even some harmless flirting. Honestly, I’m not sure what to do—I’m not going to be a dick and keep hitting on her against her wishes, of course. So that leaves me lusting after her from afar. I haven’t had to do that since high school.

  Or maybe I can fuck someone else to get her out of my mind.

  I look through the contacts on my phone. Out of the long list of women I know who I might booty text, some are now dating someone exclusively or married. The others are either not worth reaching out to because of our lack of chemistry, or they’re clingy. I only keep the latter in my phone so I can recognize when to ignore their texts. None of them seem to compare to that moment Briony and I shared.

  I sigh. Now that I think about it, getting laid isn’t even that urgent, especially as I look over my inbox. I probably don’t even have the time for anything but my hand. Jesus Christ, I’m drowning, and it’s already 6 p.m. I’ve gotten in at seven in the morning every day this week.

  I sigh yet again and run my hands over my face. The work won’t get done if I spend my time just sitting here and bitching about it. I quickly order some food for delivery and dive into my inbox. It takes me a while to get into a flow, but eventually I make it through the backlog and onto some of the more exciting stuff. Right as I’m about to open up some new designs for our latest laptop, my phone rings. It’s Ben.

  “Hey, you in the office by chance? I’m passing through the area,” he says.

  “I am—how’d you guess?” I look out the window.

  “Because I know you’re usually the last guy in the office and I can see the lights are on, on your floor,” he explains. “And the delivery guy is here too.”

  I go to let them both up. Ben strolls into my office, holding my food and a bag of his own. He must have come from the office too—he’s wearing his office clothes: jeans and a button-down. Daisy bought him all his clothes, thankfully. He would probably wear wrestling sweatshirts with cut-off sleeves and shorts outside of work if she hadn’t. He’s that guy who has worn shorts in the dead of winter most of his life, just because he’s never wanted to buy new pants.

  “Thai?” he asks, putting my food on my desk. “Let me guess; it’s chicken pad Thai?”

  “You know it is.” I sit back down and stretch my legs out, opening the carton. It’s my ultimate late-night work meal, even if it’s boring. “Dumplings?”

  “Yep.” He sits in the seat across from me and puts his feet up on the ottoman I keep nearby.

  We eat in relative silence until we’ve taken enough of the edge off of our hunger.

  “Why were you in the office so late?” I ask, taking a sip of water.

  “Just got overloaded.” He swallows. “On the project I mentioned—the one that your dad might be a good fit for. They’re willing to evaluate him to see if he’s a good fit.”

  “Seriously?” I put my food down. “That’s amazing news. What does he need to do?”

  “Well, first you need his consent, since we can’t just throw him in the hospital and pump him full of drugs.”

  “As if he’d let anyone take him anywhere against his will,” I comment. “He’d still try to kick someone’s ass even though he’s frail as hell.”

  “Psh, of course he would. But I’ll get my assistant to send over the info.” He picks up another dumpling and stuffs it into his mouth. “Shit, I should probably make a note of that or I’ll forget.”

  “Damn, you must be overloaded.” His memory is usually like a trap.

  “Wedding planning.”

  “Wedding planners can do all that shit for you, you ass.”

  “Too anal for that.” He taps out a reminder on his phone. “Daisy did the smart thing by asking you and Briony to help her. I’m surprised you guys haven’t strangled each other yet.”

  “We’re fine. Why wouldn’t we be?” I ask, a little too quickly. I hoped I don’t sound too guilty.

  “You guys are kind of opposites. She’s glass-half-full, and you’re kind of glass-half-empty, if you get me.” He runs his chopsticks along the bottom of his dumpling box. “I can see how that would be a little grating sometimes. You guys fussed all the time back in the day over basically everything.”

  “We’re fine. Pretty good, actually,” I insist. “She’s helped me out a lot with the drinks.”

  Ben nods, studying my face. He’s known me for so long that he’s one of the few people who can accurately read me. I steady my nerves so he can’t see how I’m starting to sweat.

  “You two aren’t fighting at all?” he asks, his suspicion clear.

  “Maybe a little bit,” I say, which technically isn’t a lie. “What’s with you? We’re both adults who can handle themselves.”

  Ben sits back in his seat, letting his feet hit the floor. He runs a hand through his hair. “I trust you—both of you—but Briony’s been having a hard time with men lately, and I don’t want anything bad to happen. I’m just being paranoid, I’m sorry. I’m being an ass.”

  Well, at least his paranoia is kind of accurate.

  “Don’t worry about it.” I give him a half-smile. “Though I’m pretty impressed that you have time to worry about her at all.”

  “Psh, it’s in my blood.” Ben laughs without his regular humor. “Did you know my mom still calls me and asks me to keep an eye on Briony? As if she’s not a grown-ass woman. But then again, I’m a grown-ass man who still feels compelled to do what his mother tells him, even if it’s ridiculous.”

  “Your mom’s ability to persuade people is a little terrifying, so I don’t blame you for doing what she says.” She’s the nicest woman I’ve ever met, which is what makes her ability to change minds even more powerful.

  “Seriously.” He slumps in his seat even more. “I get it though, kind of. I remember when Briony got sick when we were kids. I’d never seen Mom get so scared before. That kind of fear doesn’t get out of your system for decades.”

  I nod. When Briony was eight or so, she got a terrible virus that almost killed her. She was completely fine and has been ever since, but everyone treats her like that kid still. With her sweet, geeky nature, they’re doubly worried that people might hurt her. I get smacked with a wave of internal cringing. Her irritation when I tried to handle that bartender must have hit a raw nerve, even if she doesn’t seem too pissed off at me still.

  “She’s a smart woman. And more assertive than you think,” I say. “Everything is fine between us, and it’ll stay that way.”

  Now that I’ve spoken it aloud, I have to hold myself to it. If there’s any guaranteed way to guilt myself into a behavior, making a vow is the way to do it.

  For once, walking up to my father’s house doesn’t fill me with dread. I have some paperwork that Ben’s assistant sent over regarding the drug trial Dad might be eligible for in my bag. I
look it over, and it really seems promising. Hopefully, he’ll feel the same.

  He’s in the same position he was in during my last visit—tucked under blankets in a recliner, watching TV. This time he’s watching a business news show, his eyes bright and alert on the screen. He’s clean-shaven and has gotten a haircut since then. Nora is sitting next to him, arranging a bunch of pills into a holder, split up by day of the week and time of day.

  “Hey,” I say softly, so as to not startle either of them. Dad looks over at me and nods before going right back to the TV, and Nora says hello. “Just wanted to stop by with some good news.”

  “Hm?” Dad looks away from the screen.

  “You know how my friend Ben works for a biotech company, right?” I dig into my bag to get the pages I printed.

  “Nope,” Dad says without an ounce of embarrassment.

  I take a deep breath through my nose. He’s known Ben forever, and yet he probably doesn’t even know that we’re still best friends. In contrast, Ben’s parents send me handwritten congratulations cards when they read something big about my company in the news. I keep my expression steady since I don’t want to derail the conversation into a fight so quickly.

  “Well, he does work for one. He knows about the medical problems you’ve been having and let me know that there’s a drug trial that might be a good fit for you.” I hand him the packet. “Here’s the information on it for you to look over. From what he says, it could be a great opportunity to try something new, since your other treatments have had mixed results.”

  He puts on his reading glasses and looks over the first page. The summary of the drug and the study are written in plain English since the participants need to give informed consent to even get to the patient selection phase. I watch his eyes dart across the page; his expression unreadable at first. Sometimes that’s worse than his full-on rages, almost like the greenish tinge to the sky before a storm. It might be a run-of-the-mill thunderstorm or an F5 tornado. As if she can sense it too, Nora excuses herself to the kitchen.

  “The drug is for patients with autoimmune symptoms,” I speak up to fill in the silence. “Since there’s been a rise in people who have certain sets of symptoms without a clear diagnosis, they hope that this medicine can alleviate symptoms until something’s officially diagnosed.”

  He doesn’t react to that—he only turns the page. After what feels like ten minutes of quiet, he flips back to the first page of the packet and takes his glasses off.

  “Why the fuck would you give me this?” he snaps, his voice low.

  “W-what?” I stammer.

  “This bullshit study. Did you even look at the risks?” He flips through the pages and tosses them back to me.

  I skim over the page. It lists a whole gamut of potential side effects, from small things like insomnia and bloating, to potential organ failure and death, along with the prevalence of those effects in animal studies. Admittedly, there are several instances of the most severe effects, but the benefits could far outweigh the potential risks. They wouldn’t have moved onto human trials if it’s too risky.

  “I did,” I say. “Considering that your state is deteriorating, and your doctors say that some things that have worked aren’t as effective anymore, don’t you think it’s worth a shot to at least get evaluated to see if you’re a fit?”

  “What and kill me in the process?” he spits out. “Why’d you tell anyone about my illness anyway?”

  “Because you’re my father and I care. Ben’s in a position to help—”

  “You don’t really care.” He coughs, long and hacking. “I bet you’re only here to save face. If the public knew that a big-shot CEO let his dad die without at least pretending to help, they’d go berserk.”

  I’m not that much of a public figure, but still, his words manage to find my deepest, darkest shame. Yes, part of me is doing this because if I don’t, then how would people view me? Hearing the words aloud is a punch to the gut.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” he continues, dipping his head so he can try to catch my gaze. I didn’t even realize I’m looking at my lap.

  “No,” I manage to say. “Why is it so crazy for me to want to help you?”

  “Because you’ve never liked me.” To anyone else, he would have sounded weak or wounded. But I know his games.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I look up, my blood pounding in my ears. “I’ve never liked you? Do you not realize how much shit you’ve put me through in my life?”

  “What? Disciplining you? Pushing you to be your best in everything you did? Paying for a world-class education?” he says. “Where would you be if it wasn’t for me? You sure as shit wouldn’t be a CEO of anything.”

  He can barely lift a cup filled with water, but he might as well have slapped me across the face hard enough for me to stumble backward. Again, he’s right. He did push me to do my best, which led to me getting straight A’s, always. I was always at the top of my sport, no matter what it was, because he made me get up and practice early even if there was a foot of snow outside. I didn’t even have to worry about student loan debt since he’d set aside money for my tuition. He always told me to work hard rather than complimenting my natural intelligence, which got me farther than some of my peers who had more talent. He was harsh, both then and now, but he got the job done.

  I close my eyes, feeling a headache coming up behind my eyes. I don’t cry, but the headaches I get from frustration are almost as bad. I don’t have a comeback for what he said.

  “Take this bullshit and get it out of my house,” he says, gesturing to the papers. “And don’t you ever try to foist some nonsense death-trap treatment on me again.”

  I get up as if my body is being controlled remotely, put the papers back in my bag, and leave. I stand outside, waiting for a car to pick me up, tearing up the consent form that came along with the paperwork. I crush it into a ball and stuff it into the recycling bin.

  Chapter Seven

  Briony

  I wish my day job was as satisfying as working on BloomBrightly. I work in marketing, which I need to do for BloomBrightly, but this is marketing for insurance companies. Literally nothing is more boring, even though it pays well, and I get to work from home. I only have to physically go into the office about once a week.

  Of course, not all of BloomBrightly is fun, but that’s what Zara is for. She’s the business operations and finance person, and I’m everything else, more or less. She finds that part engaging—or at least she looks like she’s engaged. We sit at our kitchen table—ok, our table that’s next to the open kitchen because our apartment is tiny—blasting music and working away. Sometimes we toss popcorn into each other’s mouths or crack some jokes, then get right back to it. Going back to my day job after evenings like these is torture. I’m not sure if anyone has cracked a joke there in months without it flying over everyone’s heads.

  I look over the beta version of the website one last time before I switch gears to Ben and Daisy’s wedding. Things on the site still aren’t efficient enough for me to use it to plan this time around, but I’ll be able to soon. For now, I have a spreadsheet with the flowers listed, each marked with their arrival date and what I have to do with each, along with information for the people who will be helping me transport the arrangements from my apartment to the engagement party venue. My notebook is open to my sketch page, where I’ve taped a few test photos I took. Sometimes working on paper helps me think the arrangements through a little better.

  “Ugh, got another polite ‘thanks but no thanks’ from that new Brooklyn brides publication,” Zara mumbles. She must be checking our joint company mail.

  “Did they give a reason why?” I ask, my mood dipping.

  “No, just a ‘not a great fit at this time’ form rejection.” Zara sighs. “Sorry, B.”

  “It’s ok. They aren’t the only publication out there.”

  They aren’t even in my dream publication list, so my mood pops back up again. If we got a
rejection—or hell, even any kind of response—from Modern New York Bride, my heart would have exploded. Our company or my work getting featured in it would be a dream come true. They’re the top-rated publication in the region, and a lot of small businesses have taken off by being featured there. And it’s the first publication that made me realize that being a professional floral designer is even a thing. I was at the orthodontist of all places when I was twelve and thumbed through it in the waiting room. I have no idea why it was in that waiting room, but I’m happy I stumbled upon it.

  We pitched BloomBrightly to the magazine a few times in the past, to no response. At a networking event, someone told me that they rely heavily on personal connections and word-of-mouth in choosing their content. I’ve done everything besides straight-up stalking their editors, trying to get in front of them, but they’re almost as impossible to get to as the president. Or at least a junior senator. If I keep trying, I’ll get there eventually.

  At least Ash’s compliments on the business have kept me going more than I want to admit. I can push aside all of our drama to recognize a genuine compliment. If anything, I’m good at remaining professional.

  My phone alarm chimes under the pulsing sounds of whatever song Zara is playing. Ugh, it’s already six? I have a date in a little over an hour. Even though I’m not excited in the slightest, I can’t roll up to the bar wearing a big t-shirt that says COOL CAT LADY in hot pink letters and some running shorts from high school with a hole in the butt.

  “Hey, want to help me with an outfit for this date I have?” I ask, standing and stretching.

  “Ooh yes, of course.” Zara shuts her laptop and stands, too. “Tell me all about this guy.”

  “My nice coworker set me up with him a few weeks back, so I can’t just blow him off.” I sigh and go into the bathroom, leaving the door open. “But I’m not excited.”