16. Now
SIXTEEN
now
Our luncheon with the NYC contractors’ union takes twice as long as planned. That puts my entire day off by two hours.
I’m irritated.
My father is pissed .
“Fucking money-grubbing pains-in-the-ass,” he mutters, settling into the back of our Mercedes sedan. If his lifelong chauffeur, Barnes, has anything to say about my father’s language, I can’t tell. The old Brit meets my gaze in the rearview, waiting. When I nod, he peels away from the curb immediately, speeding Uptown as fast the lunch-hour crush allows. I turn my attention back to Dad.
People always tell me we look nothing alike. I used to think it was a weird comment to make, but as the years pass and our appearances diverge more dramatically, I’ve started to notice, too.
The one thing I did inherit is his size. We’re both tall and broad-shouldered, with long arms and legs to match our statures. My hair seems to get darker every year and my eyes lighter. He’s the opposite—his once-blond hair turned white before it started to fall out, and his eyes have gone from gold to murky brown.
Mom likes to tease him about his round face. Once upon a time, he hid it under a well-groomed white beard. But now, when he glowers at me, his round chin seems to seep into the folds of his neck.
Half-bald and pale yellow, Mason Stryker is still a force. His age and health don’t matter—Dad remains an imposing man. Even more so when he gets angry.
Internally, I sigh. If he blows into the office in a shit mood, it will mean a bad Wednesday evening for everyone.
“They gave us concessions on the health insurance bullshit,” I point out, squashing a twinge of guilt. “They only asked for sixty-seven cents more per hour.”
“That’s nearly a dollar more for time-and-a-half,” he grouses hoarsely. “Which they always get because it takes their lazy asses twice as long as it should to get anything done.”
I’ve learned it’s better to act apathetic. If I dig my heels in, so does he. Shrugging, I try for blasé. “Building in the city is harder.” I look out the tinted window at the traffic boxing us in. “Less accessible streets, more transportation delays.”
Dad harrumphs.
His poor health is really starting to show. He has no patience and very little poise. His suits fit looser, particularly in areas where he used to be broader and stronger than me. Recently, a restless air of discontentment often fills the shadows on his face. It took me a long time to put a name to it :
Helplessness.
He doesn’t tolerate it well.
His iPhone buzzes in his hand, and he turns his glare on it. “Damn it. Your mother.”
He always acts annoyed when she contacts him during work, but I know better. Mason Stryker may be a man with few weaknesses, but Jacqueline Stryker will always be his Achilles’ heel. He adores her and indulges her endlessly.
His muddy, tired gaze softens while he reads her message. It accomplishes what I couldn’t—his mood shifting from hostile to speculative.
“She’s asking about our table at the brand relaunch next weekend,” he says gruffly, looking out his own window. “She’s worried about you. Thinks you need a companion.”
For Gray, for always .
In the cold light of day, my revelation about Ella’s book feels like a bad dream. The thought of reading all of our memories twisted around made-up characters… possibly coming to a false happy ending…
Guts me.
I studiously avoided the app for two days, choosing to pretend I never saw the damn thing. But that can’t keep me from reliving the whole fucking ordeal every time I think of her.
And I think of her every other minute, now.
Most of the time, I manage to summon the energy to get pissed off. But, in the rare moments when I’m too exhausted to raise my hackles, I just feel dejected.
I thought I’d feel better as the hours wore on while I continued my campaign of avoidance. Instead, the ache in my chest only swells and throbs. Sometimes, its immensity makes it hard to catch my breath.
“Dad.” My voice sounds tight. I sigh, struggling against the weight of my grief. “I don’t want a companion, okay? You know I’m done with all that shit.”
Sensing my upset and not wanting to witness it, my father keeps his gaze trained on the traffic. “It’s been three years , Grayson.”
I can’t resent his dismissal. After all, hadn’t I firmly convinced myself that I was over her? That time healed all wounds? Hell, a week ago, I would’ve agreed with him.
But that was before.
Before the reminder that she’s still out there. Before the confirmation that I had meant something to her—against all evidence to the contrary. Before this invisible knife lodged itself in the tender space on the left side of my chest.
The same place Ella Callahan once conquered.
For Gray, for always .
I suddenly feel my father staring at the side of my face. “Son,” he says quietly. “You have to get past this.”
My insides squeeze. I force my feelings down and turn back to the window. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”