Chapter Two #3
Ash laughs again, taking a sip of his sparkling water.
“You could say that. Ryker’s family are old shipping tycoons.
They’ve run a huge chunk of the port for generations.
The price of this apartment is basically chump change to them.
Right this second, he’s flying to Calgary on his family’s private jet for a business trip. ”
I shake my head, mystified by the concept of a private jet. I gesture toward him. “What about you? Are you secretly a billionaire too?”
Ash smirks, waving a hand dismissively. “Not in comparison to Ryker. My grandparents immigrated from Sweden and opened a department store or two, so they did well for themselves. My parents are doctors. Comfortable, but no private jets.”
I mouth the word wow before shoveling another piece of beef into my mouth. “And your other friend?”
“Ah, Aiden’s a bit of sports royalty, actually,” Ash says, tapping his fingers against the polished table.
“His father, Insung Park, was a baseball legend in Korea before being one of the first Korean players drafted to the major leagues here in the states. He played for the Padres and then the Mariners before retiring. Aiden played in the minor leagues himself for a few years before pivoting to become a batting coach.”
My jaw hits the floor. I drop my fork for real this time. “Holy shit. Wait, his dad is the Insung Park? I’ve seen footage of him play. He’s a legend.” I lean forward, bracing my hands on the table. “Do you think I could get autographed baseballs for my little brothers? They’d lose their minds.”
Ash laughs warmly. “I’m sure Aiden wouldn’t mind hooking you up once he’s back in town.”
The conversation flows easily from there while we finish off the food.
Ash asks me about home, and I start spilling things I haven’t talked about in months.
I tell him about my family, my ten siblings, and the rigid community I grew up in.
I talk about the friends I left behind at the BYU and how weird it feels to realize I get to choose my own major now.
I don’t have to study business or theology just because my parents demanded it.
“So what do you actually like doing?” Ash asks, tilting his head.
“I’m not sure,” I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. “I liked hiking. Sports. Dirt biking. Outdoorsy stuff. I just don’t know how that translates into a job, you know?”
“You’ve got plenty of time to figure it out,” Ash reassures me.
We drift into talking about sports, and Ash mentions his family is huge into hockey.
That opens the floodgates, and we spend the next twenty minutes trading jabs about Utah’s new NHL team.
I defend them stubbornly, and Ash teases me about our lack of winter sports dominance compared to the Pacific Northwest. I relax into the chair.
Ash is so welcoming, he makes me feel like I belong here instead of making me feel like a charity case.
Once the containers are empty, I help him clean up the kitchen.
We toss the boxes in the recycling, and Ash leads me out to the living room.
He pulls a stack of bedding out of a hall closet and helps me set up the couch.
The pillows are plush, and the comforter feels like it’s woven from silk.
It’s a million times better than a piece of cardboard on the cold concrete.
“Get some rest, Jax,” Ash says, giving me a soft smile. “Sleep as late as you want tomorrow. We’ve got nowhere to be.”
“Thanks, Ash. For everything,” I say softly.
He gives me a little nod and disappears down the hall into his bedroom.
I sink into the couch, pulling the comforter up to my chest. The apartment is quiet, but it’s a safe, warm quiet. I pull my phone out of my pocket. I don’t have cell service, but the penthouse has an unlocked guest Wi-Fi network. I connect to it and open my browser.
Curiosity gets the better of me, so I type Ashley Wennberg Seattle into the search bar.
A few articles pop up. Some news from his alma mater about legal achievements, a professional LinkedIn page, and a sparse, highly sanitized Instagram account.
Nothing personal. No wild party photos, no scandals.
He just seems like a normal, successful, genuinely nice guy who wanted to help out a kid down on his luck.
I lock my phone and toss it onto the coffee table, staring up at the dark ceiling. I’m exhausted, but my brain won’t shut off. I keep picturing the way Ash smiled at me over dinner. He’s got a really nice smile. And those warm brown eyes … they held my attention a little too easily.
A weird, breathless fluttering kicks up in my stomach.
I swallow hard, rolling onto my side and squeezing my eyes shut.
I shouldn’t be looking at Ash like that.
The guy helped me. He saved me from freezing to death in a sketchy alleyway.
I’m just grateful. The fluttering is just excitement about not being homeless anymore. I admire him, platonically. That’s it.
I’m an ordinary straight guy who just needs to get a job. At least, that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself.