Chapter 5
Cora
Tessa’s eyes practically hit her hairline when Xander helps me out of his expensive sports car. If I weren’t so frazzled by the circumstances I would have insisted on taking a cab, or having my sister pick me up.
But I couldn’t have gotten here fast enough. The ice bucket that Tessa’s call dumped over us was a blessing in disguise, because what the hell was I thinking?
Xander Stone is the king of playboys, and I really don’t have room for that in my life. It reeks of heartbreak and self-loathing. The latter I secretly practice with the utmost dedication regularly, so I don’t need to add extra reasons there.
“Let me know if I can help in any way.” Xander awkwardly kisses my cheek, but I’m sure he can’t get away from here fast enough. I don’t remind him that I don’t have his number. He doesn’t need my level of family drama.
Though he jumped into action the minute I’d received the call, and I’m grateful for that. The silence in the car on the way here was awkward as fuck. I was calming my hormones and my nerves at the same time.
He probably regretted the offer of a ride.
“Thank you… for everything.” I tuck a strand behind my ear and cut the awkward dance between us short, dashing across the street.
The engine revs, but I don’t look back. He’s gone, and that’s good.
“Who was that?” Tessa’s tone is laced with accusation, which shouldn’t surprise me because it’s her signature intonation.
“A friend.” I march toward the care facility entrance, but I know there is no way to avoid this conversation.
“Since when do you have friends with Lamborghinis?” she huffs, her heels clicking as she tries to keep up with me.
I stop. Does she really want to talk about this now? “Have you ever met any of my friends?” I deadpan.
This time, she huffs without the commentary. I resume my walking.
Tessa, who is usually a poster child for inflated self-confidence, always gets weirdly self-conscious when we visit Dad. In fact, I don’t even think she ever visits by herself.
It might be the reason Dad rejoices every time we come. I’m not proud of that, but it makes me feel like my visits don’t matter to him. As I said, not proud of those feelings, but I can’t seem to curb them.
And while he is always thrilled to see her, Tessa behaves as if she’d secretly smoked weed on the porch before entering his room, all anxious and uncomfortable.
The tension grows with every step as we approach the building where Dad has lived since his stroke.
While my mind reels with all the possibilities, trying to solve the robbery before I understand what happened, Tessa blabbers inconsequentially about her life, mostly about an event she is putting together.
With her successful, handsome husband, a luxury mansion on Long Island, a villa in the country, and two perfect children—who I adore, so I can’t hold them against her—Tessa has never worked in her life.
She keeps herself occupied with a never-ending series of charitable activities. I mean, I guess volunteering counts as work.
I hold a grudge because when Dad couldn’t take care of his business, she never volunteered her time or money.
I’m being unfair. The deal was, Tessa picks up the bill for his care, and I take care of the business. I’m bitter because the business is barely surviving, and every time I visit my dad, I’m drowning in guilt.
“It’s so unnerving. Can you believe a caterer canceled on me at such short notice? People in the service industry can be so unreliable.”
She stops, her hands on her hips, her fingers tapping.
What I can’t believe is how she can talk about this while we rush to console our father.
The foyer is busy with caregivers and visitors, the phone ringing in the background.
“How dare they?” I say, just to annoy her. I don’t think she even realized I am a person in the service industry.
Her eyes widen. She opens her mouth, but changes her mind and waves her hand. Good. I continue toward the elevators.
She doesn’t seem to follow, so I sigh and turn. My sister stands in the middle of the commotion, seemingly unaffected by it. With her lips pursed, she blinks away fake tears.
This is always the case: she offends me, but acts like it was the other way around. Plus she doesn’t ask for help, but guilts me into offering it.
If I compare her life to mine, I guess her approach has rewarded her, unlike mine. I hate how bitter I am every time we’re together.
We need to get to our father, so I sigh and give in. “Send me the details, and I’ll prepare the catering for you. But you have to source the staff; I can only get you food.”
She raises her chin. “Thank you,” she says, in a voice like she did me a favor, not the other way around, and marches away as if she is being chased.
“So sincere,” I grumble under my breath, and follow her.
“Where were you anyway? Can you afford to close the shop? Nobody was answering the phone.” She pushes the call button in quick succession, because apparently we’re in a hurry, finally.
This is what I get for closing the bistro and indulging myself at a rich-people luncheon and a freaking spa. My father couldn’t reach me, freaked out, and got my sister involved.
If I had stayed at work, this whole situation would have been manageable. An hour ago, I was blissed out of my mind, and the effect has evaporated so quickly.
And since when has Tessa been interested in the bistro? She insisted on selling the money pit when our father couldn’t manage it anymore.
I take a deep breath. “I took a day off. And I have a cell phone, as you ended up remembering.” Now it’s my turn to jab the call button with a sense of desperation.
Every time I’m with Tessa, I feel less, and then I act less. Less kindly. Less mature. Less reasonable.
I hate that version of myself.
“Dad tried to reach you and couldn’t, so he called me,” she accuses.
The elevator comes, full of people, which saves me from screaming, slapping her, or worst of all, defending myself as if I did something wrong.
Why she is annoyed that he needs help is beyond me.
By the time we reach Dad’s floor, my body doesn’t feel any effect of the afternoon of pampering I just had.
I have been thinking about all the ways I can make you scream.
Jesus. As irrational as it is, I blame Xander for all of this. The stupid massage made me miss my father’s call. Why didn’t I check my phone? It was right there.
“Both together? Mr. Winslow will be so happy,” a caregiver greets us when we arrive at Dad’s ward.
Tessa greets her as if they are the best of friends. At least she doesn’t speak to me anymore before we reach Dad’s room.
“Tessa, you came!” Dad stretches out his arms, inviting an embrace, looking even smaller in his wheelchair than the last time.
Tessa gives him a quick peck on his cheek, and I approach and hug him, feeling him tense under my touch.
“What happened, Dad?” I sit in the chair beside him.
He looks at me with that absent gaze of his that I wish would clear one day. It breaks my heart every time I visit—he survived the stroke, but his life seeped out of him regardless.
He turns to my sister. “How are the kids? And how is that handsome husband of yours?”
Tessa walks around, tracing her finger along a shelf. “Everybody is all right. You really need to make sure they come to clean your room every day, Dad. We pay them to do that.”
“Dad, tell me what happened.” I try to get him focused.
I know this emergency is probably as fictional as any other we’ve had over the years, but still, let’s not just chit-chat.
I find my blood boiling as usual when the three of us are in the same room. Tessa ignores Dad, he ignores me, and at the end of the visit I somehow end up feeling like a failure.
“Have you been drinking?” He raises his eyebrows.
“I had a glass of wine at an event earlier.” I search my purse and pop a mint. “What happened, Dad?”
“Well, you remember how you put the bank on my phone?”
His slurring is always more pronounced when he’s frustrated. I cover his hand with mine, trying to comfort him.
With his other hand, he clutches his smartphone to his chest, protecting it. I bought it for him so he could video call his grandchildren.
He seemed to have enjoyed the technology, so I installed a few other features to make his life easier. Including a banking app. What was I thinking?
I was happy that he took to the phone so well, and now plays solitaire and Candy Crush like a pro.
Not yet sixty-five, my dad doesn’t belong in a long-term care home. But as he never fully recovered from my mother’s betrayal, and after he suffered his stroke, we had no other options.
“I thought you enjoyed using the app.” Okay, this robbery makes less and less sense.
“Yes, but someone stole my money.” He holds his phone even closer, as if to protect what’s left in his bank account. Which wasn’t much to begin with.
“What do you mean, someone stole your money?” Tessa joins the conversation. “This place is a state-of-the-art facility. Who would steal here? We need to report this.” She opens Dad’s drawers and closes them again, nonsensically.
“Not from here. From my bank.” Dad hesitantly hands me his phone. “I should never have trusted the stupid ape.”
“App, as in application, Dad.” I sigh.
I look at the screen, swipe a few times, and don’t see the icon, so I use the search and find it quickly. I hand the phone back to him. “Type in your code.”
I’m regretting that I exposed him, not just to convenience and entertainment, but also to the perils of cybercrime.
Dad takes the phone, his lips pressed tightly together. “Where was it?”
I lean over, and Tessa jumps closer, craning her neck. The initial password page is still on the screen.
“Dad, you need to put in the password first,” Tessa urges, as if speaking to one of her teenagers.
Dad stares at the screen and grumbles, “It wasn’t here.”
“Dad, check if the money is there now.” I smile at him to reassure him while my mind is racing. What is happening?
“The ape wasn’t there,” he says as he types in the password, and then turns off the screen and looks at us with a smile. “Well, I’m glad this unfortunate misunderstanding at least brought you two to visit me.”
“I don’t understand.” Tessa stares at me.
I smile at Dad and take the phone to show him how to find an app if he accidentally removes it from the home screen.
We chat with him for a little longer before Tessa announces she needs to head home. I promise to come again on Monday, as I usually do, and we both leave.
“Is your ride coming back?” My sister asks when we step outside.
“No, I’m taking the subway.”
“I’m calling a cab. It’s really unfortunate I had to come all the way here because he misplaced an icon on his phone. I have two children and a lot of work, Cora. Next time, answer your phone so we can avoid these kinds of situations.”
“He was happy to see you,” I whisper, but I don’t think she hears me through her aggressive heel-clicking as she trots to the curb.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. The smell of lemongrass and sandalwood somehow still lingers on my skin. The whisper of the scent carries me back to the carefree afternoon.
I should never have accepted his invitation. What is it good for, getting a taste of the life that I can’t have?
No more Xander Stone for me.