Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Chase
It’s been two days since I sat across from Grant Randolph the fucking Fifth and had my lies shoved down my throat.
Because that’s what this is.
The raw reality behind all the other bullshit is the one thing that I didn’t do and should have: told her.
I should have opened up about my problems, leaned on her instead of trying to shield or protect her. I didn’t, and now here I am.
I haven’t slept more than an hour, and I’m pretty sure that sixty-dollar steak was the last thing I’ve eaten. And I threw that shit up the second I stepped out of that restaurant.
There’s a gnawing feeling that’s taking over my stomach, but it has nothing to do with hunger. I can’t keep my thoughts straight, and when I try, forcing myself to attempt and understand what the fuck I’m actually dealing with here, fear overtakes my mind and shuts it down.
Paige.
My Paige.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel, and I wish I could squeeze my eyes shut.
He’s out of his fucking mind.
Today was the first day I could break away.
If it weren’t for finals or having to come up with an excuse as to why I needed to borrow my best friend’s SUV, I would have driven down here that very next morning.
Maybe even that night. But as it was, I had to track down my professors, beg to change my exam times, jumping in early and taking them with an entirely different class altogether. But it’s done.
Why did you even bother with finals? You can’t do shit without that last semester.
I clench my jaw, whipping into a parking lot, and slam my palm down on the wheel.
Fuck.
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes, and then I jump out of the SUV. My feet move faster and faster the closer I get, my heart pounding in my chest.
Please let it be bullshit. Please don’t let it be true. Please just…
I jerk to a stop, my heart falling to my fucking feet, and look at the building, gaze automatically drawn to the windows—or where the windows should be.
My stomach sinks. Boards. That’s what she has protecting this little place that means so much.
There’s graffiti all across them and paint peeling off, several shades, like she covered it up too many times to count.
Has she? How did I miss this?
My feet carry me forward, and I pry one of the boards away, feeling the splinters of the wood under my fingers but ignoring it.
I climb through, and the smell hits me immediately.
I tug my T-shirt up, covering my nose as the stale, wet stench of rot overpowers my senses.
I stumble inside, bracing myself against the cold air that cuts through the building, and unlock the door from the inside, propping it open with a random bucket full of I don’t even know what, old putty maybe?
It’s midafternoon, and people are milling around outside, so when I spot the mini pink tool bag sitting on the floor close to the small step ladder, I dig inside. I find a hammer and a couple new nails and rehang the board so no one walking by calls the police or anything.
As I hammer the nails through the two thin pieces of plywood, ruining the infrastructure behind it and causing even more damage that will need to be repaired later even if it’s just small patchwork, I can’t help but wonder if she did this herself too. That’s got to be her little tool bag, right?
My stomach rolls, nausea taking over, because I quickly make my way back inside.
I pause there, finally really taking in the space—water damage, rot, mold creeping up the walls, if you can still call them that, some of the drywall caving in, revealing the insulation underneath, which is also ruined.
My shoes slap against the floor; the beautiful hardwood is lifting and cracked.
The mirrors are gone, pieces of shattered glass swept into random corners, and when I get to the bathroom, it only gets worse.
The toilets are growing moss, the bolts rusted out and the toilets themselves having shifted, showing the pipes underneath.
The whole thing will have to be gutted. I step back into the small hall, trying the other door, but I can’t even bring myself to go in and freeze there, gripping my head as everything around me closes in.
This is so fucked.
I tell her what he said, what he’s offering and what he wants in return, and she’ll lose everything.
Everything but you, man. She’d choose you over anything else. You know this. You want that and—
My eyes snap up, and that’s when I see it, like its own little halo and shining light, giving me the answer that I don’t want but the one that’s the most crystal-clear in the shape of a small single item in the middle of the rotting walls, standing out against the mess around it in a shiny frame that has to be new.
Walking over to it, my fingers tremble slightly as I pull the frame free.
It’s a picture of Paige and her dad, side by side, smiling like they just won the lottery. Bright smiles, full of life—life that’s no longer here, in a moment she’ll never get back. And it’s not hanging in her dorm room, where she could see it every day.
It’s here, in the middle of this broken-down studio that she bought in his memory, with the money he left her, living the life that she promised him she’d learn to live in his absence, before he took his last breath.
The bottom corner is blurred, the image distorted from where it got wet, but it does nothing to dim the light, the love in their eyes, the connection between them. It’s like I’m holding the only piece of her left that hasn’t been shattered by the world.
You deserve so much more than the world has given you, baby. And I’m going to make sure you get it.
My jaw trembles, my vision swimming as I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to stop the rush of guilt and panic from overwhelming me.
This is going to be—
“Excuse me, what do you think you’re doing?”
I whip around, startled, my pulse pounding as I take in the woman there, her hands on her hips and a frown on her face.
“I’m going to call the owner and the police,” she threatens, backing away from her spot just outside the door.
Those words knock me out of the fog, and my pulse stutters for a second as I scramble to regain my composure. I look from her to the frame in my hands, trying to push down my emotions.
“No, please don’t.” My voice comes out more desperate than I mean for it to, and I take a step toward her, trying to steady myself.
“I’m just here getting a quote for…the owner.
I had a key to let myself in.” The lie comes easy, and I motion to the boarded-up windows and hope she didn’t hear or see me nailing it back up.
“It’s going to cost a lot to get this place up and running,” I add, trying to play the part as much as possible but also telling the truth as I gently hang the picture back where it belongs.
I turn back to the woman, hoping I don’t look as anxious and torn apart from the inside out as I feel.
“Do you think you could maybe not mention you saw me?” Her face pinches instantly, and I quickly add, “It’s just that I want to work out some details before I send her that final quote, see if I can get the cost down at all.
And if she knows that I came by already, she’ll be expecting it, and I just don’t want to add to the worries.
” I swipe my hand across my mouth to hide the swallow.
The woman sighs and looks around the space, a bit of sadness in her expression. “Yeah, I can do that. Lord knows the poor thing doesn’t need any more of that. She comes down here at least once a month and tries, but she can’t do much on her own, you know?”
I smile but it feels empty. “Thanks. I’ll lock up and head out soon. Have a good afternoon.”
The woman nods and walks off, and I wait a moment to follow.
I don’t remember driving back. It’s like my body is on autopilot, moving without me. I barely feel the weight of my hands on the wheel, the engine humming beneath me. My thoughts are on fire and running a mile a minute.
The SUV rolls slowly to a stop, just a few feet from the big cement sign welcoming me back to campus. I used to smile when I saw it, but now it feels cold and impersonal, like everything else in my life right now.
No that’s not right.
I don’t feel cold. There is a fire in my veins and it’s only burning hotter with every step I take.
There’s something suffocating in my chest, but I don’t even care. I don’t care that my hands are shaking or that my heart feels like it’s raging inside my chest.
I enter the building, and the older woman behind the desk waves me over with a smile.
“I can help you here,” she calls.
I step forward and push the envelope toward her.
The woman frowns slightly, her gaze flicking between me and it, but she doesn’t question me. She just picks it up, tearing open the top that’s still sealed, and pulls out a small rectangular paper from inside. She reads it for a second before glancing back at me.
“Registration and room and board?” she asks, still smiling.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay.” She starts typing something into her computer, her fingers moving quickly. “Student ID, please.”
I hand it over.
I don’t know how long I wait after that—seconds, minutes, or longer—but eventually, she slides a piece of paper toward me. “You can register in forty-eight hours,” she tells me. “But don’t delay beyond that. Classes are already filling up.”
I nod again, turn, and walk out, knowing exactly what follows.
Forty-eight hours and the check will clear.
Forty-eight hours and she’ll be leaving with her grandfather for a three-and-a-half-week trip around Europe, coming home just two days before the start of the semester.
I drop onto the first bench I find, staring out at nothing and thinking about everything.
Forty-eight hours.
I can make it through forty-eight hours without losing my damn mind.
After that?
Who the fuck knows.