Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
“I’m so sorry, honey.”
I’m fine. I’m totally fine.
“She posted it last night in response to George Eden’s statement, but from what I’ve seen, it hasn’t made any major headlines yet.”
I was an adult when I left California—a very young one, sure, but over eighteen, nonetheless. And I made it abundantly clear that I left on my own and why in that video.
What I decide to do or not do with my life should be no one’s business but my own. But it never has been.
I don’t want to ask her this next question, but I won’t be able to relax today or sleep tonight if I don’t. It’s been three days since Travis stayed the night, and I don’t think I’ve managed to sleep more than four hours a day, which means I look and feel like a zombie.
So even if I don’t want to know the answer, not really, I still ask, “What did she say?”
When I cut ties with my parents after I left Los Angeles—and mentally long before then—I told myself I wouldn’t waste another second thinking of the two people who exploited me for their benefit.
But I soon learned that the past never leaves, and pretending it isn’t there causes more damage than healing.
So, I decided to let out my frustrations about my family in the privacy of my journal, just a couple of times a week before bed, and that would be it. Yet I broke my own promise over and over again the first year I left, unable to unglue myself from online spaces I shouldn’t have been in.
The second year, Jada saw right through my bullshit and promised she would be on the lookout as long as I stayed away. It was hard at first, but nowadays checking on my parents is at the very back of my mind—thanks to Jada and Paul and their unyielding resolve to keep me posted with the most relevant stuff.
My former teacher lets out a deep breath. “Do you really want to know?”
I think of the sleepless nights that await me if I keep wondering how bad it actually is instead of coming to terms with this shit show. “Yes.”
My phone buzzes with a text, and I put it on speaker as I open the image Jada attached to our chat. I scan my mother’s words, so fake and measured that I can’t comprehend how she still gets a paycheck from this.
“What do you think?” Jada asks the question of the century.
Now’s my time to sigh. “She’s full of it. That’s what I think.”
Nothing happened to Allison. She had a happy and healthy upbringing, and she loved us very much. When she turned eighteen, our daughter was free to make her own decisions, and she chose to not be a part of this life anymore. Her dad, siblings, and I have nothing to do with this decision, as we have always supported her and given her love. I am distraught by the unfounded rumors that this family mistreated Allison in any way or was to blame for the terrible thing that happened to her when she was twelve. George Eden’s speculations are nothing but malicious. Legal action will be pursued against anyone who seeks to harm our family during this difficult time.
Bullshit. All of it.
How dare she pretend nothing was wrong after putting me through hell for most of my childhood and every single day of my teen years?
After humiliating me in front of millions of people?
After her narcissism got me kidnapped and nearly sold to a trafficking ring?
“She knows they’re in the wrong,” Jada says, but I doubt it. My parents were the true definition of narcissistic and, by the looks of it, still are. “You don’t have to listen to all this media circus. Your parents won’t change, and the rest of the world is just nosey. You’re safe.”
“It’s not that I feel physically threatened.” Maybe I do, but that has everything to do with the car and the break-in and very little with my family. “It’s more… mental stuff.”
“You’re still on the fence about therapy?”
She’s been pushing me toward it for a long time, but how can I be honest with a therapist without giving myself away? My life isn’t exactly an easy one to explain.
“I’ll consider it.”
It’s what I always tell her, and she hasn’t been buying it for years.
“Allie…. Therapists are sworn to secrecy. They won’t go to the press unless they want their licenses and livelihoods taken away, and trust me, nobody wants that.”
It makes sense in my head, it truly does, but…
“I mean it, Jada—I’m thinking about it. I know I need therapy, and I promise I’ll get there.” Someday. “Just give me a bit more time to settle in Bannport, yeah?”
Because fifteen months aren’t enough?
“I trust that whatever you decide to do will be the best thing.” Even though she clearly disagrees with me on the therapy thing, I know she means her reassuring words. She always does. “I’m just looking out for you, honey.”
“I know, and I love you so much for it. You are the best. I hope you know that.”
Her chuckle eases some of my tension. “I love you more, Allie. Recess is about to end, and I need to go back to the students, but you take care, okay?”
I smile, remembering my math classes with her. They were the absolute best. “Have a good day today.”
“You too, honey. We’ll talk later.”
My anxiety will only worsen if I don’t get out of my apartment right now. Getting in the car is a no-brainer, and I consider stopping at my favorite deli on my way to The Lair as a little treat for not having lost my shit yet.
The bar closes on Wednesdays, but I know boss man will be there doing all sorts of things he shouldn’t since it’s also his day off. So that’s why, twenty minutes after ending my call with Jada, I knock on the door of The Lair holding two takeout bags.
“Travis,” I call out. “It’s Allie.”
I’m not sure why coming here was my first instinct. Maybe because looking at the bracelet on Travis’s wrist makes me feel better about life.
His confused frown is the first thing I see when he unlocks the door.
“What are you doing here?” he half grunts. Because of course he does.
I don’t allow his foul mood—his usual mood—to deter me. Today has the potential to become one hell of a shitty day if I don’t turn it around now.
“I brought you lunch,” I tell him with a smile, showing him the bags.
His green eyes travel from the bags to my face, then back down. I know he can smell those chicken parmesan sandwiches because I’ve been salivating since I got them ten minutes ago.
“Can I come in?” I ask, in case my intentions weren’t clear enough.
In usual Travis fashion, he answers with a grunt but doesn’t shut the door in my face.
When I enter the bar, I spot a bunch of open notebooks, sheets of paper, pens, a laptop, and a calculator in one of the booths.
My math-geek heart leaps. “Is this what I think it is?”
“Accounting?”
“Do you need help?” I ask him as I place the takeout bags on an empty table.
Travis walks up to me, the warmth of his body seeping into mine. “You’re into that?”
“Are you really asking if I’m into numbers ?” I roll my neck. “This is my jam, boss man.”
The eyebrow raise he gives me is one of muted amusement. “You’re good with numbers?”
It’s not surprising that he forgot about my résumé. My previous experience in customer service probably did it for him, and he didn’t pay attention to anything else. So, I remind him, “I’ve got several certificates in finances and accounting.”
Over the last six years, I’ve been trying to keep an active mind by doing things I enjoy. Hobbies like bracelet making, and this. As soon as I got my first paycheck, I saved up until I could enroll in an online accounting course. For the first time in far too long, I felt useful, like I wasn’t wasting my life away.
I got my last certificate—my sixth one—five months ago, and Travis has just given me the perfect chance to let my inner math nerd loose.
“If you ever need help with the bar’s accounting, just let me know,” I offer, not bothering to hide the hopeful gleam in my voice. “I can sign an NDA or whatever you need.”
He looks at me with intent. “Yeah?”
“I’d be happy to help.”
“Accounting is a pain in my ass,” he deadpans. “You’re good at this?”
He’s really considering this. Somebody pinch me.
“I can help you today so you can see for yourself,” I decide, feeling giddy inside about the possibility of doing some real work with years of piled-up knowledge. “Free of charge, of course.”
“You’re not doing all this for free.”
“Just this one time. Think of it as a trial exercise. If you want me to take care of the bar’s accounting from now on, we’ll settle on a rate.”
His nod is short but convinced. “Works for me.”
If Travis were literally anyone else, I would hug the hell out of him right now. He has no idea how much this little task means to me. To my mental health. To my self-confidence.
I spend the next hour crammed in a cushioned booth with Travis, my elbow grazing his bicep as I shift through all the documents and have a massive brain orgasm.
Eventually, he grabs the bags I’d set on a table earlier and sniffs inside. “You brought your lunch with you?”
I don’t look up from the calculator. “Our lunch.”
As if he suddenly didn’t understand the English language, he repeats, “Ours?”
“I figured you hadn’t eaten anything, but if you don’t like chicken parmesan sandwiches, I’ll just have yours for dinner later.”
“I like them.” A heartbeat passes. “Thank you.”
Travis? Easily agreeing to me managing the bar’s accounts and buying him lunch all in the same day? He must be coming down with a fever.
After heating up the sandwiches in the oven, we eat in silence as I think of ways to make the accounting easier since he’s doing everything manually. No wonder he hates it.
“Would you be willing to get a computer software for it?”
Travis shakes his head. “I couldn’t figure it out.”
“You’re old, but you’re not that ancient.”
That earns me a glare, to which I respond with a smirk.
“I’d rather keep using my books,” he says, ignoring my jab.
“Okay. I can see you’re very methodical about cash accounting, but it can get tedious. How often do you go over the accounts?”
“Every Wednesday.”
“How about inventory?”
“Daily.”
His organizational skills don’t come as a surprise. In fifteen months, he’s never been late to work, has never sent out checks a day later than usual, and The Lair is pretty busy every day. It wouldn’t be if his managing skills sucked.
“You seem to have everything figured out,” I observe out loud. One look at the bar’s numbers and I can see we are making great profit, too, so his methods work. “If you want me to take care of the accounting in the future, just teach me how you do it, and I’ll adapt. No biggie.”
I catch him flexing his hands under the table. I still can’t believe he’s wearing my bracelet. A bet is a bet, I suppose.
“You’ll really do it?” he asks. “I don’t want to overwork you.”
“You won’t be doing such a thing. I’m a math geek, so you’ll actually be doing me a favor. I’m in my element here. Most people get a headache just thinking about finances and accounting, but I love staying focused like that. It soothes me.”
I’ve never considered finding an actual job in accounting because I don’t think I’m qualified enough. Sure, I’ve got several certificates under my belt—straight A’s in all of them—but I can’t compete with people who went to actual college for it.
So maybe that’s why my heart leaps at Travis’s next question. “What’s your rate?”
“I’ll have to think about it,” I say, wiping the sudden sweat on my hands on my leggings. “When do you need an answer?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
Okay. This is happening. I’m not freaking out.
“I’ll give you an answer before next Wednesday.” Once I calm my nerves, I’ll need to do some research to avoid rattling off a number that is totally ridiculous. “Thank you for this, boss man. It might sound silly, but I’m really excited about it.”
The small smile curling the corner of his lips is reason enough to send my poor heart into overdrive. “There’s nothing silly about doing what you love.”
I’m trying. I’m really trying. But it’s like my boss—this older, grumpy, ex-military man with an intimidating exterior but a heart of gold—wants me to fall in love with him.
And I’m not convinced that I won’t.