37. Will
37
Will
A lice is earning back all the trust women and men, and selfish humans everywhere, have ruined for me. She’s just good. In every way possible.
With her arms still around my neck, she drops from her tiptoes, separating our lips and peering up at me. “Did you know that Mason thinks your mom is in fashion?”
I blink—three too many times. Because I have my story straight—now. And Plan A is to not share. But I met Mason years ago when I was still figuring things out. Before I had Zoe to back up everything I said.
I honestly don’t remember what I told Mason then.
“She was.” I clear my throat.
“But he thinks”—she pauses, her brows knitting—“that she’s still alive. That she’s working in New York as we speak.”
“Weird,” I say. Then, trying to keep my tone cool, I add, “You were talking about me with Mason?”
Her hands slide down the length of my arms and into my hands. “I’m sorry. Is this hard for you to talk about? I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”
“It’s not, usually. Probably because I don’t talk about my family anymore.” I squeeze her fingers. I don’t want to make a big deal of this, but I also don’t need my employees debating my life. I clear my throat. “I’m not sure how I feel about you and Mason discussing them.”
I’m not sure if she hears everything I’ve said. She looks at me, concern in her eyes, and says, “Never? You don’t talk about your family ever, Will?” She tugs me over to my couch and pulls me down until I’m sitting next to her. “That’s as unhealthy as Billy’s situation. You can’t do that.”
Why is she always accusing Billy and me of being unhealthy?
“I’ve dealt with it, Alice. I did. But now, I deal with it by not talking about it.”
“That’s not dealing.”
“It is,” I say, truly attempting to not sound annoyed. “I deal with the past by keeping it in the past. By moving forward. It’s very healthy.” At least, that’s what my therapist said. But then that’s what I wanted her to say. I’ve always wondered if I paid her enough if she’d say anything I asked her to.
“I just think—” she starts, but her phone jingles in her lap. Her mom’s face lights up the screen.
Sandra . I’m not a fan. I’ve overheard too many conversations to like the woman.
“Shoot,” Alice says. “I should take this. “She called last night, and I didn’t answer, and?—”
“It’s fine. Take it,” I say, kissing her cheek and standing. “I’ll make us some lemonade.”
I give her several feet of space. But this open-room concept and Alice’s broken phone ensure that I don’t miss much.
“Alice,” Sandra says. “I need you to send a little more money.”
She’s sent her mother money? I thought she refused her.
Alice slinks down farther into the cushions of my couch—as if this will make her even more alone. “I can’t do that, Mom. I’ve spent my paycheck. Isn’t Boone working?”
“Not yet. You know that.” Sandra huffs, annoyed with her angel daughter. “You’re working for Billy Baxter. He can’t loan you a little?”
“You still have your unemployment check coming, right?” Alice says, ignoring Sandra’s Billy comment altogether. “Have you looked for a waitressing job in L.A.? I’m sure there’s work if?—”
“Alice, I’m looking. But looking doesn’t provide a paycheck. If you don’t have anything left and you refuse to ask your boss, just call Jude. You know your dad would send you some.”
“I’m not asking Dad to send you money.” There’s a crack in her voice, and I’m so tempted to go sit by her—but then I’m probably invading her privacy enough as it is.
I stir the lemonade mix into my pitcher of water, my movements slow and deliberate. Don’t mind me—just a little eavesdropping, nothing to see here.
“Well then, what are we going to do?” Sandra grumbles. “There’s nothing in our fridge, Alice. Nothing. Not even a carton of yogurt.”
Alice covers her eyes with one hand. “I guess I’ll see what my savings can spare.”
Sandra sighs. “Thank you, baby girl. I knew I could count on you.” And then the woman is gone.
“Do you ever get tired of that?” I say, walking back into the living space with two glasses of lemonade in hand.
Alice closes her eyes. She sinks into my couch, her chest heaving with a deep breath. “All of the time,” she says just before slapping a hand over her mouth. “I can’t believe I said that.”
I scoff. “I can.” I sit next to her. “Maybe you shouldn’t always bail her out.”
Her eyes fly open, and she pushes herself to an upright position. “I don’t.”
I swallow. “It just seems like she’s more than happy to take advantage of you.”
Her jaw clenches—she’s too honest to deny the truth of my words. “Haven’t you ever helped someone who didn’t deserve it?”
“No,” I say. It’s the simple truth. Maybe I have, but unknowingly.
“You help Billy every day. A lot of people would say that he doesn’t deserve it. Or at least that, at one point in his life, he didn’t.”
Ouch . How does this girl know exactly how to gut me? I have never thought about it like that before. But there was a time when I needed help. I needed someone to trust me—though I’d done some very untrustworthy things.
Zoe gave me that help, that trust. And eventually, so did others.
I sit and think about my parents. About a time when they were here. “My dad used to say, when you lift others, you raise yourself.” He always wanted to do good with his money. I didn’t start out well—but I’ve tried to donate to good causes since the circus incident. I’ve tried to lift others.
Her dark lashes fan and her deep blue eyes glide up to mine. “Sounds like a smart man.”
“He was the smartest.”
“I’m sorry you lost him,” she says, her hand on my cheek. “And I’m sorry he’s painful to talk about.”
That isn’t what I said—but she’s not wrong.