44. Now
FORTY-FOUR
now
Family: Matilda and Darcy Callahan. 727 Edmunds Way, Ellicott, MD.
After seeing Ella in person, it feels wrong to read about her and her family in the dossier Amir assembled. My stomach churns, revolting. My fingers drum restlessly against the cool metal of the island while my eyes skip down over the next few lines.
Matilda—nurse technician, Spring Grove Hospital Center. Night shift lead tech.
Darcy—student, Centennial High School. Senior class treasurer. President of the Gamer’s Guild. General member: Girls in STEM, honor society, science honor society. Part-time IT assistant, Howard County Library.
Finances—
My conscience grips me. No . I can’t do it. It isn’t my business how Ella’s mom keeps her bank accounts or where she keeps them.
But Ella’s info…
Stapled to the opposite side of the file, a collection of papers contains every minute detail of Ella’s life. Her bank balance. Her income. Her weekly schedule—as determined by phone records.
I thumb through the edge of the stack without reading any of it. Information blurs past me. Things that make perfect sense—her weekend gig as a yoga instructor—and random curiosities I wish I could ask about—the fact that she graduated a semester later than she should have, despite always being a great student.
Her current address, phone number, and work information stares up at me from the top page. I don’t bother to save it.
After all, she has me blocked. Did I really think she would take me off her blacklist after I showed up drunk on her stoop? Bellowing at all of Brooklyn about how I fucked my way through the Upper East Side in a pitifully unsuccessful attempt to forget her?
She even said there was no reason for us to seek each other out again.
There’s a lot she didn’t say, too. I still have no explanation for why she left. I still have no idea if everything we had meant anything to her.
Did I make it all up? Is that why she was able to leave so easily?
But then, why did she dedicate the book to me? Why did she let me come upstairs instead of leaving my sorry ass on the street? Why did she make me coffee before she fled?
My gaze snaps across my kitchen to the travel mug Maggie gave me, along with her insistence that I find some way to return it. Why would she suggest that if she knows I don’t have a way to contact Ella? Is she trying to tell me I would get through if I attempt to text or call? Is she trying to tell me not to give up, even if I can’t reach Ella by phone?
I stare at the digits with my heart hammering in my temples until I can’t anymore.
“ Mi amor ?”
My surroundings fill me with the surreal, detached horror of a bad dream. Sarabeth’s. Weekend brunch. My mother staring at me, wondering why I can’t concentrate.
And Ella.
Ella playing in the back of my brain like a song stuck on repeat. Loudly, with the volume knob broken off.
I’m going to text her , I decide. Then, No. Fucking idiot. I can’t. I won’t .
Today, Jacqueline Stryker cuts a particularly flashy figure in bright red. Luckily, the waiter doesn’t bother hitting on her because my darkly-clad father sits at her side with his arm stretched across the booth, behind her shoulders.
I notice they do that more now. My mother seems to huddle into him at every opportunity. He reaches for her just as often. It doesn’t take a genius to see why. Dad is clearly unwell and getting worse with every month that passes.
A team of New York’s finest physicians has managed to slow cancer’s progress but can’t reverse it. With each new scan, we see more and more. His days are still numbered, but no one knows the precise figure. It m akes sense that my mother longs to be as close to him as she can for as long as possible.
Watching them, a fresh bolt of helpless anger cracks through me. Along with another wholly-undignified emotion.
Jealousy .
I feel jealous. Of my dying father. Because at least he knows he’s about to lose the love of his life forever. At least he has time to hold her and soak up everything they have together.
Ella has shown me no such mercy.
Another flare of outrage seethes in my gut. Definitely not texting that b ? —
But she isn’t a bitch.
Not then, not now. Never.
Even when she stood on the threshold of her small, yellow bedroom, breaking my heart for the hundredth time, she was still just… Ellie.
“Grayson?”
This time, Mom’s voice successfully jerks me back to reality. I blink at the pair of them. “Hmm?”
“Have you slept?” she tuts, pushing my coffee cup at me. “You look exhausted.”
I haven’t slept since I found out my ex-girlfriend wrote a book and dedicated it to me. Reaching for an excuse, I flash a grim smile. “Just doing my job. CEOs don’t sleep. Right, Dad?”
He has the grace to look slightly chagrinned. “I have said that,” he admits. “But surely you know I exaggerated. You need rest to do good work.”
Rest makes me think of Ella’s twin-sized bed, with its honeysuckle sheets. She gave me her bed. She wouldn’t do that unless she felt bad or just wanted me there.
None of it makes any goddamned sense. The further I get from our encounter, the more suspicious I feel. More certain than ever that something happened back then to make her leave.
But what ?
I keep recalling her small, sweet face when I begged her for an explanation—the pale mask of certainty. “No, I can’t tell you why.”
She never said there wasn’t a reason. Only that she can’t tell me what it is. That distinction seems crucial suddenly.
And I have to know the truth.
Forgetting where I am, I pull my phone out of my joggers and shoot Amir a text, telling him to go back five years and pull every record he can find. If I’m going down the Ella Callahan rabbit hole again, I’m damn well bringing a flashlight this time.
“Grayson!” Mom’s pinched tone matches her face. “ What is wrong with you?” Her emerald eyes trail over me, then flash to the empty place beside me on the booth bench.
Well.
Not empty .
“ Dios mio ,” she gasps. “Your scarf.”
I scowl. And lie. “I lost my other one.”
Her gaze snaps at me. “Grayson Frances Stryker. Vergognati! Do not lie to your mother. I have not seen that green scarf since?—”
Her exclamation reminds me of being caught with porn on my laptop back in prep school. It means be ashamed . And, damn it, I am.
So ashamed of myself for ever even opening the fucking shoe box… let alone pulling out the handmade scarf… and— God help me —wearing it.
Motherfucking hell .
If a more pathetic sap exists, I don’t want to meet him. And now, of course, my mother noticed.
The gleam in her gaze falls somewhere between desperate eagerness and indignation. I haven’t seen the look in years, not since we banished any mention of my ex-girlfriend from our family discussions.
Still, it makes sense. Ella charmed my parents as thoroughly as she enchanted me. When she left so abruptly, she hurt them, too. Especially Mom.
I can’t afford to give h er any hope. Even if I figure out what made Ella run—and why she still refuses to tell me…
There’s no future for us. I’ll never trust her again.
“Mother,” I clip, cutting her severe look. “It’s a stupid wad of yarn. There’s a cold front, and I lost my other scarf. That is all.”
But Jacqueline Stryker doesn’t quail so easily. Her gaze narrows at me. “Grayson?—”
“Mom.”
“ Mi amor , you’ve been so off this whole week,” she whines. “Your father and I have both noticed it. Marco, too.”
When I scowl, she rushes on. “Now, don’t give me that look. I asked Marco if you are okay, and he was very vague, trying to cover for you. But a mother knows , Grayson. All this strange behavior, and you’ve suddenly refused to find any female company for a business event. Now, the scarf . I can’t help but wonder if there’s something going on with?—”
“That’s enough,” I snarl. “I won’t talk about this anymore. We all agreed, remember?”
Guilt bleeds into her expression, tightening the lines around her lips. “It’s only that, if you did want to talk about it, there’s something I?—”
Dad reaches over to cup my mother’s face. “Darling,” he mutters, his features stern. “Leave it be. Grayson is right. We all agreed. Besides, we have other things to discuss.”
He turns to me. “Have you decided where you want to move the Brooklyn marketing campaign to? I got your memo about going in a different direction.”
For a moment, my mind reels. It’s jarring to go from such a personal issue to a professional one. But, then again, it isn’t all that professional.
My desire for a new marketing campaign comes on the heels of Ella’s disapproval the previous morning, along with the realization that we’re disturbing her neighborhood without appealing to it in any way. It occurred to me that we need to try to hook the locals on our new development. Clearly, the firm that came up with the or iginal promotional materials wasn’t up to the task.
My father goes on, listing some of the other marketing firms we often call in to tweak roll-outs. I half-listen as the gears of my mind start churning. A new idea greases the wheels.
If I want to figure out why Ella left me, I need to get us in the same room and watch her. Between that and whatever Amir digs up, I’ll figure it out. And then, I can finally put it behind me and move on .
For good.
For Gray, for always.
“I have a new place in mind,” I announce coolly. “It’s a work in progress.”