Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Emmersyn
Eighteen-year-old Emmersyn . . .
Logan opens the car door. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Miss Em?” he asks for maybe the thousandth time since he picked me up from the penthouse, drove me to the hangar, and boarded the plane with me. I know I shouldn’t be going to Boston alone.
“Probably not,” I admit, flashing him a small, reassuring smile. “But my friend needs me.”
Clarissa’s family has been dealing with a lot of changes lately—too many, and none of them good. First, her parents lost their jobs. There are other things she doesn’t fully understand because her parents prefer to shield her and her siblings from the adult conversations. And then, just a few days ago, her father had a heart attack and was rushed to the hospital. He had surgery earlier today and will need to stay for a week or two.
They don’t have the money to pay for the medical bills—or insurance—and the list of what they need is long. I offered my grandmother’s help, but Clarissa refused. Of course, I couldn’t just sit at home; I had to come and see what I could do for her. I even brought some cash with me that I “found” lying around the house.
Okay, it wasn’t just lying around. I grabbed it from the safe, but I did leave a note with an IOU in there.
“Your grandmother’s going to fire me for enabling you,” Logan mutters, shaking his head.
“She wouldn’t dare,” I reply with a grin as I step out of the car. We’re at Boston Memorial, and I suddenly realize I forgot to text Clarissa to find out which room her father is in and where we should meet. “You’re the only person who can keep up with me—her words, not mine.”
Not that I’m entirely sure what she means by that. She’s never happy when I leave the house and take the subway instead of asking Logan to drive me. It seems like a waste of fuel and his time. Except, whenever I do that, he somehow manages to track me down and keep me company, like I’m a toddler who might get lost in New York City.
But Mom taught me how to navigate not just the transportation system but the entire city when I was young. “Pay attention to the landmarks, Em. Memorize all the stops. This one will take you to Grandma and Grandpa’s house,” she would say as we went on adventures or she took me to school. I was nine when she finally let me use the train by myself.
My grandparents didn’t know any of that until after Mom died. They couldn’t understand why she raised me that way. If they had known, they would’ve bought her a car, hired me a nanny and a driver and . . . I hate to think how my life would’ve turned out if they’d had more influence when I was younger. At least the first fourteen years of my life were mildly normal. Then, I lost Mom and had to move in with my grandparents—and follow their rules.
Logan came into the picture too. He’s a former FBI agent—something about retiring early and wanting to do something different, like driving a teenager around and, let’s be honest, babysitting her because she can’t be contained in one place.
It’s so un-Langley of me. A Langley should behave in a totally different way. My grandmother makes it sound like being a Langley is like being part of a different species, like we’re technically royalty. Someone should really give her a reality check. We’re just people like everyone else.
Grandpa was at least less stuffy and more understanding of my ideals. He never tried to change me the way Grandma does. She wants me to be like her all the time. Hates my auburn hair—it’s not the “right” color. She also can’t stand the way I dress or the fact that I speak my mind instead of quietly nodding along. According to her, I’m a constant embarrassment to the Langley name.
“Do you want me to go with you?” Logan asks.
I shake my head. “No, I’ll be fine. The last thing I want is to draw attention. It’s Boston—no one’s going to think much of me if they see me.” I glance at myself. I dressed simply in ripped jeans, an old sweatshirt, and a pair of flats.
Grandma would hate this look, but that’s the beauty of being eighteen and finally living away from her judgmental grip. If only I could find a way to pay for my college tuition without having to use my trust fund.
Can I wait until I turn twenty-five? Plenty of people start college later in life. I could work in many places to keep up with the utilities of Mom’s apartment and . . . How many jobs would I need to have?
But if I do that, I’ll never learn how to handle Langley Media, and it was important to Grandpa that I take over. He always said Mom was a great candidate, but that I have as much, if not more, heart than she did.
I never really understood what heart has to do with the business world, but for the past four years, he took me to work whenever I wasn’t in school and introduced me to everyone—from the receptionists to the COO. He always told me that every single person there was important, that their stories mattered, and that they were what made Langley Media one of the best companies.
I can’t just walk away from it because I can’t afford college, can I? But the idea of getting married—at eighteen, for fuck’s sake—is daunting.
I step out of the car, giving Logan a quick wave as he drives off. The Boston air is crisp, carrying the scent of fresh coffee and the distant hum of city life. I pull my sweatshirt tighter around me and start walking toward the hospital entrance. There’s something about the atmosphere here that makes me feel a little out of place, even lost.
As I walk through the sliding doors, I reach for my phone to check in with Clarissa, but she’s not answering. I quickly text her, Where are you? and try calling again, only to be met with her voicemail. Great. I stand there for a moment, feeling a bit lost. I’ve been to Boston before, but this hospital feels like a maze, with corridors and signs that seem to lead everywhere but where I need to go.
Where do I need to go? Cardiology? Intensive care? The thought of that last one makes my heart clench, bringing back memories of Mom. That’s where she spent the last days of her life. She was in a coma, and we were all holding onto the hope that she’d wake up, but the doctors said her brain was too damaged to recover. My grandparents made the decision to disconnect her, and I didn’t get a say. I wasn’t ready for her to go, but nevertheless, I had to say goodbye.
A heavy sadness washes over me, and I instinctively wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold it together. Tears threaten to spill over, but I quickly blink them back, straightening my posture. Falling apart in the middle of a hospital isn’t an option. It’s not very Langley of me, as Grandma would say.
I scan the area, hoping to spot a familiar face or at least a helpful sign, but no such luck. I’m about to give up and try calling Clarissa again when a voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Hey, you look a little lost. Need some help?”
I turn to find a guy standing a few feet away, a friendly smile on his face. He’s tall, with messy dark blond hair and a relaxed demeanor that instantly puts me at ease. There’s something about him—maybe it’s the way his blue eyes crinkle with a hint of mischief, or the casual way he’s holding his soda—that makes me think of summer afternoons and lazy beach days. It’s like he’s the embodiment of comfort and lighthearted fun, and suddenly, I don’t feel quite so lost.
“Oh, um, yeah,” I stammer, suddenly very aware of how disheveled I must look. “I’m trying to find my friend. Her dad had surgery today, but I can’t get a hold of her to figure out where I’m supposed to go.”
He nods, like this sort of thing happens to him all the time and he’s probably an expert at navigating hospitals. “No worries, I’m sure we can find your friend. Do you know what kind of surgery he had?”
“Heart surgery, which makes me think he might be in cardiology, but . . .” I shrug, feeling a bit useless.
“You’re in luck. I’m headed that way myself,” he says, his smile widening. “Come on, I’ll show you. Just let me finish my drink. It’s the only thing keeping me awake right now.”
“Long day?” I ask.
“Try long week—probably month,” he replies with a weary grin.
“Sorry, is there something I can help you with?” I offer, feeling a bit more at ease.
He shakes his head. “I mean, you could join me for lunch. I haven’t eaten since . . . I can’t even remember. Probably last night.”
“Let’s do that. But you should be taking care of yourself,” I say, trying to sound like I know what I’m talking about. “When a loved one is in the hospital, you need to look after yourself too. They need you to be strong.”
“Talking from experience?” he asks, a hint of curiosity in his voice.
“Some,” I respond casually.
“But they’re all good now, right?” he asks, his tone more concerned.
I nod, even though I doubt he needs to know that in my experience, when someone lands in the hospital, they never leave. It happened to Mom and then to Grandpa. “You just have to have faith.”
“I do,” he says, trying to sound reassuring.
I fall into step beside him as we walk, hoping we’re headed to the cafeteria and not somewhere more sinister. Okay, I really need to stop reading my grandfather’s thrillers. They might be comforting, but they’re making my imagination run a little wild.
“So, who are you visiting?” I ask, trying to steer the conversation away from my own thoughts.
“My dad,” he says, worry tightening his voice.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” I offer, trying to sound as reassuring as possible.
He nods. “Yeah, he’s in recovery and will have to spend a couple of weeks here, then PT and rehab . . . that’s what worries me.”
He shakes his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. “Never mind. You don’t want to hear about some stranger’s problems.”
“I’m good at listening,” I say, extending my hand with a smile. “Emmersyn Langley. See, now we’re not strangers anymore.”
His jaw tightens slightly as he repeats my name. “Oh, you’re Emmersyn?” He says it like he just bit into something unexpectedly sour, surprise and something close to distaste in his tone.
Maybe I should leave, but something keeps me rooted in place. There’s a pull he has on me, something I’ve never felt before, and it’s compelling enough that I want to stay and figure him out, learn more about him. I don’t even know if this is flirting, but I muster my best voice and ask, “You seem to know me, and you are?”