Chapter 7
Jack
When I get home from golfing, I sit on the bed and stare at the ring Laine left behind. Why would she return it? She’s not required to. I didn’t ask for it back.
Paisley told me the Herald let go all of their reporters. I saw Laine’s articles on fraud with government funds in the Vancouver Sun , but Davis says she’s freelancing.
Then I remember she had on a Steaming Mugs T-shirt when she was in the emergency room. She can’t be working there, can she? What kind of story is she going to get from that job? Whoever threw coffee at her burned her pretty badly. I hope he’s rotting in jail.
I take the ring out and twirl it in the light. Laine loved this ring. She’d suggested a much more austere one, but this ring was her—bold, unafraid, and beautiful. I haven’t thought about that Laine in a long time. I’ve been focused on all the trouble she caused, her carelessness with my career.
But I guess I miss her sometimes.
I did love talking with her. She’d light up talking about one of the stories she was working on. Sometimes, I’d struggle to follow what she was saying, but her enthusiasm always won me over. She was a damn good reporter. Even when I didn’t like what she wrote. My heart sinks a little with that thought.
And of course, she’s beautiful. Every man at the library gala loved her in that dress. She walked confidently, but I could see by the way she ran her thumb up and down her forefinger that she was nervous. I learned that when we were together. It’s her tell.
She’s also fun to be around. Vancouver can be a small community. Whatever I did would get back to my parents, but Laine… She was free to have fun, be silly, and enjoy life. Her parents were elsewhere and entirely disengaged. I know she wished for a better relationship with them, but she managed on her own just fine. Trish and I have talked about that. Laine was a rock for her when she lost her parents. And she was a light for me and helped me manage the loss of my mother. I always wished she’d met my mom. They would have loved each other.
I walk over to my wall safe and put the ring in the back, so I don’t have to look at it. What do you do with an old diamond engagement ring? I didn’t want it back. Now, it’s just a big, shiny symbol of my failure.
I lean back in bed and try not to think about Laine. But now, I can’t stop. Her parents did a real number on her. She was always an afterthought. They were on a ski trip to Banff the first Christmas Laine and I were together and didn’t even tell her. We were standing in their darkened living room on Christmas morning when she called them to ask where they were. She had brought me home to meet them at their annual Christmas breakfast.
She was crushed when she realized they’d left town and must have forgotten to tell her, so I spoiled her all day, and we had Christmas dinner with the Martins. That evening, I pulled Julia aside and told her what had happened. From that moment on, she treated Laine like the daughter she’d never had.
All my friends love Laine. They were baffled by our breakup, and I’m guessing they probably still are. Looking back now, I think I was in survival mode. So many things were happening at once, and the fact that she wrote the story without even considering its impact on me seemed selfish.
Maybe I didn’t like someone shining such a bright light on the work I do half the year. I mean, there is a reason I only do it half the year. But once I reacted, I had no choice but to keep moving forward. I had no time to let my life fall apart. So, I ignored my friends, endured all the medical board’s reviews, defended my work, and continued to get ready to travel with WMC, just believing it was all going to work out in time.
And it did, but here I am now. The trip fell apart, and I’m realizing I’ve had little time to process anything that happened before I left. And now, that stupid engagement ring is taunting me from inside the safe.
But I have to keep moving forward. That’s what I know how to do. I’ve got to focus on that boy I brought back with me. He deserves the best life we can give him.
Linda Hsu reached out to me for an interview with Laine about Abdo, and it’s true that I don’t want to exploit him. But I also don’t want to put myself in any position that involves interacting with Laine. I’m sure there would be some upsides to doing a story, especially one I had some control of, but we’ll just have to get by without it.
I do need to understand what has her slinging coffee at Steaming Mugs, though. I text Trish Standing.
Me: Is Laine working on a story at Steaming Mugs?
Trish: Why? Are you going to get her fired or throw coffee at her too? Leave her alone, asshole.
I sigh. Trish is not currently a big fan. She bitched me out when I broke it off with Laine, just like everyone else. But I want to know why she returned the ring.
Me: She returned my engagement ring.
Trish: Finally! I told her to do it months ago. Leave her alone.
This isn’t getting me anywhere. I think for a minute. Paisley and Davis have plans tonight, and I don’t want to ask Paisley anyway. She’s a romantic at heart and would think we’re getting back together. We’re not. I only want to understand why Laine’s working at Steaming Mugs. What’s happening with her now?
My mind goes in circles. Why did she return the ring? Why is she working at Steaming Mugs? Who is she spending time with, now that it isn’t me? Is she sorry for the way things ended with us? Why did she want to talk to me about Abdo?
When I wake on Saturday morning, I’m still wearing my golf clothes from yesterday. It seems last night was the first night I slept all the way through since I returned from Sudan six weeks ago. If only I’d been awake enough to go to bed like a normal person. Nonetheless, I think this is a step in the right direction. I change into running clothes and a water-repellent cover and head out.
The rain is cold and unrelenting. Every time I think it can’t rain any harder, it does. And after a little while, I find myself running toward the part of town where Laine lives. My legs just take me there. We never officially lived together because she always wanted her own place. When we broke up and I told her to leave, I heard her murmur, “ This is why I never moved in with you .”
I pass a Steaming Mugs and peek in the window. No one looks familiar, and I can’t decide if I’m disappointed or happy about that. As I turn the corner to run up the alley, I run smack dab into someone, and we’re both knocked to the wet ground.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say as I jump up. Then I cringe. This could not be any worse. Laine is flat on her back, holding her elbow.
“If you’re here to tell me not to go back to your apartment, I left what I came to return,” she tells me.
I shake my head. “No, that’s not why I’m here.”
“What are you doing then?” she says, rubbing her sore joint. “I left the key with your doorman.”
“I got it. I was going for a run.”
She scowls. “You don’t run this way. You usually run around False Creek.”
I help her to her feet. “Why are you working at Steaming Mugs? Are you looking for malfeasance with their coffee beans?”
“Why does everyone think I’m writing a story, no matter what I do?” She pushes the hair out of her eyes.
“Because you usually are.”
She sighs in frustration. “Well, this time I’m working for the money. Not all of us have generational wealth that we pretend doesn’t exist. Some of us have debt, and when we lose our job, we have to take on something else to cover our bills.”
“You’ve been all over the paper with your freelance work.”
She shrugs. “No one’s getting rich as a journalist. Particularly a freelancer.”
“Does Davis know? I’m sure he’d throttle the person who isn’t paying you market rate.”
She picks up the trash bag she had in her hand and hefts it into the trash bin. “I got a little better than market rate. It’s just not enough.”
“What?”
She rolls her eyes. “Freelancers get paid shit. And it can take them six months to pay me if I’m not careful. I could make six or seven figures if I wanted to sell stories to the tabloids, but real journalism doesn’t pay so well.” She opens the coffee shop’s back door, looking like a drowned rat, and leaves me standing in the deluge of rain.
I continue my run, but I can’t get Laine off my mind. Every time I try to think about Abdo or my golf game or anything else, my brain goes back to her. I miss her sometimes, though I would never admit that to anyone. We were great together. But after what she did, I can never trust her again. Right? I have to protect myself. It’s the smart thing to do. Keep moving forward.
When I return to my apartment, I take a shower and then pick up my phone. When all my friends were single, we were always getting together on the weekends. Now, they’re with their wives and fiancées. That gets old for me. I need new single friends.
I call Dad and ask if he wants to meet for lunch.
“Why? Am I supposed to be somewhere?” he demands.
Now, I’m sorry I asked. I clarify that we did not have a plan, but I’m being spontaneous.
“Oh, well, fine then. Does this mean what I hope it does?” he asks.
No. I’m not giving up my medical practice for a logistics company. “It just means I have a free afternoon and thought we might get together.”
“Fine. I set Stephanie up at the Kitsilano Spa for the day anyway. How about we meet at my club for lunch?”
“Sounds good. One o’clock?”
“Fine. See you then.”
We disconnect, and I have some time to stop by the hospital and check on Abdo. We’ve started reducing the medication that’s keeping him under, but we won’t fully wake him for a few more days. In the meantime, we’re watching his heart and pulse rate for indications of pain. Both increase as the pain receptors start communicating, and we want to avoid that.
When I get to the ICU, Cordelia is with him. “How’s he doing?” I ask.
“Hello.” She smiles warmly. “He’s doing great. I think he’ll be ready for Monday.”
I nod. We’ve found a child psychologist who is fluent in Sudanese Arabic, and she’s flying in from Toronto to be here when Abdo wakes up. She’ll help us explain where he is and what happened, as well as what’s happened to his mother. That’s the only thing I’m doing on Monday.
After completing my notes in his chart, I grab a rideshare to the Bohemian Club. I grew up coming here, and while this place doesn’t fit with me or my life choices, Dad’s still a member, so sometimes this is where we go. They only accept male members, and I’ve always joked that you need three Ws—white, WASP, and wealthy. Women can visit, but only as the guest of a male member, and they’re restricted to the main dining room and the ladies room.
I greet Sawyer, the concierge, on the veranda with a nod.
“Your father is waiting in the dining room,” he says.
“Thank you.”
I walk back and find my dad surrounded by hangers-on, as I call them. They’re members struggling with that last W and hoping for pearls of wisdom from my father.
“Here is my amazing son,” he announces.
After fifteen minutes of small talk, he shoos them away, and we’re finally alone. I order the shaved beef dip sandwich with a side salad. I’d prefer the truffle fries, but we ate too much pub food yesterday after golf.
“Good to actually see you in person,” he says once the waiter disappears.
I shrug. “You’re in a relationship. I hate to intrude.”
Dad grins like a schoolboy. “Viagra is the best invention. That guy should be a billionaire.”
I cringe. I don’t want to know about Dad and his ED issues. “Dr. Nicholas Terrett, the inventor, was an employee of Pfizer, and I believe he’s doing rather well, living in England.”
“The man is a genius, I mean—”
“How is Stephanie doing?” I need to get this train back on the tracks.
“She’s quit her job with that horrible dentist. He was very handsy, and I didn’t like what she was telling me. I demanded she quit and move in.”
It takes all of my willpower not to ask if he felt manipulated at all, but he’s blinded by her big boobs. They were expensive, I’m certain. Instead, I take a different approach. “Do you think she’d like you if you didn’t have any money?”
He waves that away as our sandwiches appear. “I probably wouldn’t like her if she wasn’t beautiful. The things she can do…” He waggles his brows, and I think I’m going to puke. “You know she has friends,” he offers.
My stomach turns. But I still wish I’d ordered the truffle fries. “Are you inviting me for a swap?”
“Swap?”
“You know, you sleep with her friend and I sleep with Stephanie?” I shudder at the thought.
“No! Of course not. But now that you’re back from your trip and not doing much, I thought you might like to get back on the horse and start dating again.”
“I’m fine, Dad. I’m taking a break from women.” I sigh. “Laine returned the ring I gave her.” I don’t know why I told him that. Probably because he always thought she was in it for the money, and this is further proof that he was wrong.
He smirks. “As she should. It wasn’t a gift. Took her long enough.”
“It was a gift, actually. I never expected her to return it.”
“Be grateful you got it back. She wasn’t good for you,” he insists.
What he’s saying is that her parents being upper-middle class wasn’t enough on the social scale. “Is Stephanie good for you?” I counter.
“Very good,” he says, and he grins again like a schoolboy.
“What are you doing other than spending all your time in bed?”
“We had a nice shopping trip in Beverly Hills. We go out to dinner. We play card games. And yes, sometimes we find other ways to entertain ourselves.”
I shake my head. This lunch is a lesson in patience. If I steer the conversation away from Stephanie, we’re going to end up talking about Drake Logistics. I’m not sure if that’s worse or not, honestly. But at this point, I know I should have gotten the truffle fries.