Chapter 6 The Last Universal Common Ancestor #2
“Yes.” Turning away from the plant, I walked to the other side of the small office, then back again. “Did they send you the records? Did you find something?”
“I received his records—”
I sighed my relief that the ploy had worked.
“—and there is no mention of a cardiac incident at all. However, the certificate indicates cardiac arrest was the cause of death.”
I stopped mid-stride. “That can’t be right, correct? I was always told he’d fallen down a flight of stairs and that’s how he’d died.”
She hedged, “Maybe. If the medical examiner conducted an autopsy—which I can’t find that he did—maybe he discovered evidence of cardiac arrest. The medical records from the hospital actually indicate that your father’s neck was broken when he arrived at the hospital.
I guess it’s possible that he had a heart attack, fell down the stairs, broke his neck, and so the medical team at the hospital didn’t . . . but no.”
I slumped down in my chair, staring at the coffee stain on the corner of my desk. “His neck was broken?” I didn’t know that.
But then, I’d only been thirteen at the time. No one discussed the particulars of my father’s death with me. Only that he’d fallen.
Diya’s voice grew more clinical. “When I called over, I couldn’t get ahold of anybody who remembered your father’s case at the hospital. Which—if you think about it—is not unusual because it was fifteen years ago. So, I tried to reach out to the medical examiner’s office.”
“What did they say?”
“Your instinct about there being something wrong with the death certificate was right. They’ve never heard of this medical examiner, the one who signed off on your father’s death certificate.
So, I tried to track him down but all I could find was a news story from New Haven about a guy with his name losing his medical license.
The story was printed a couple years after your father died. ”
My hands had gone cold and my throat felt weirdly constricted. “Why did he lose his license?”
“Illegally prescribing medication. Turns out he had gambling debts and—yada yada yada—he lost his license. My suggestion is to try and track the medical examiner down and see if he remembers why he was the one to sign off on your father’s death certificate, since he lived and practiced in a completely different county.
It doesn’t make sense to me. But maybe I’m missing something? ”
“Thank you so much, Diya. This is incredibly helpful.” My hand was shaking as I scribbled the notes on a pad, underlining “broken neck” and “not the county ME” three times.
She seemed to hesitate, then asked, “Not to keep poking at a sore subject, but other than the Nakita situation today, have you heard from Andreas? Or is there anything else new on that front? Even though I’m not coming over, we can talk about it later if you want.”
Rubbing my forehead, I said, “Since he met with Dmitry, Andreas hasn’t tried to make contact with me as far as I know. But, as you mentioned, I did block his number, so . . .”
Diya made a thoughtful noise. “I wonder if Andreas doesn’t know how to stop playing chess, even in relationships.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what if he doesn’t understand how to ask for what he wants. It doesn’t occur to him to try the direct path because everything is strategy with this guy. Everything is trying to stay five steps ahead of his opponent.”
Diya and I sat in mutual silence while I listened to the faint office noises that filtered through the door. I mulled her words over and immediately saw the truth in them.
From what I understood firsthand about his childhood, every day had been a contest, survival of the fittest, and he was the youngest. He couldn’t rely on brute strength.
His brothers were monsters, his father was a black hole of emotional energy, and if you didn’t learn to strategize, you’d get crushed.
At least my parents had loved me even if I didn’t get to keep them for long. If I had grown up needing to be strategic in order to survive, would I be the same?
My heart twisted with a new kind of melancholy, and I realized suddenly that I actually felt extremely sorry for Andreas. Which was annoying.
I shook my head. It didn’t matter. Andreas clearly saw me as either a pawn or an opponent, someone to manipulate or to conquer. Diya’s point and my compassion changed nothing. Andreas did not care about me as a person, and he definitely wasn’t in love with me.
But one day, if he ever did fall in love with someone, he would likely have a hard time knowing how to approach the person with sincerity and vulnerability instead of strategy. And that made me feel sorry for him all over again.
Diya cut into my thoughts, asking, “Didn’t you say his assistant keeps reaching out to you about the lawsuit contesting the will? Something about having information that will help?”
I let my hand drop from my forehead. “Yes. I just received another message yesterday, practically begging me to meet with Andreas about it before the shareholder meeting.”
“See, that seems more Andreas’s style, right? He has information that would help you and he wants to use it as a bargaining chip to stay relevant in your life.”
Picking up a pen, I spun it between my fingers. “That does seem like something he would do given everything I know about him. But not to stay relevant in my life. I still maintain he wants to use me for some new plot against his brothers.”
She made a noncommittal sound, then said, “Okay. My break’s almost at its end. But please let me know what you find about the medical examiner. And text when you need me to sleep over again.”
“I will. And thank you.”
Diya said bye, then hung up.
I put down my phone, then closed my eyes for a full thirty seconds, feeling the pressure at the back of my throat build and dissipate.
Andreas was undoubtedly a strategic genius.
But if there was one thing I was a genius at, it was avoiding prickly emotional issues until I could file things away neatly in the correct emotional folders.
After all, I’d had fifteen years of practice.
* * *
After rocking my sweet cherub godson to sleep, I busied myself by cleaning Martin and Kaitlyn’s kitchen, including the grout behind the faucet. With a toothbrush. I also sterilized two loads of bottles, reorganized the under-sink cabinet, and Windexed the mirror in the guest bathroom.
Kaitlyn and Martin hadn’t returned from the doctor’s yet, but it was just past 8:00 PM. Last time, Kaitlyn hadn’t come home until closer to 10:00 PM. Joey had now been out for over an hour, so there was no point to my continued movement except to stave off my resting thoughts.
I poured dish soap into a bowl and filled it with water, soaking Joey’s tiny spoons and watched the bubbles form their little kinetic city.
I told myself I was definitely not going to check my phone for notifications from Nakita.
Rather, while the suds did their job, I simply picked up my cell to pass the time.
Lies.
In truth, my brain had not moved on from the idea of Nakita meeting with Andreas since her text this afternoon.
The image kept popping into my head: Nakita, vibrating with extrovert energy, sitting across a vegan sausage platter from Andreas, who, despite having an honorary degree in Aloof Studies from every university on the planet, would answer every question in an effort to win her over to his side.
That’s what kept tripping the worry breaker in my head.
The idea of Andreas sharing anything with Nakita.
It would definitely backfire. She always meant well, but she didn’t have an off switch.
If he so much as hinted at what happened between us or said something about being madly in love with me, she’d run with it.
She’d amplify it. There’d be memes and GIFs and maybe even a T-shirt.
Within twenty-four hours, everyone in the chess world orbit would know.
I was supposed to be done thinking about him, finished, but apparently my amygdala hadn’t received the memo.
He deserves it. If he tries to use her, he deserves what he gets.
And yet, I also knew how much Andreas valued his privacy.
He guarded his thoughts and feelings like they were state secrets.
He would hate having his statements made public like that.
And if there existed even a miniscule chance that Diya was right, that Andreas had actual feelings for me, then this public exposure would impact him deeply.
The more I thought about it, the more uneasy I became. Setting the phone down before I could unlock it, I paced the length of the kitchen, pausing as I passed to stare at the baby monitor and then at the cell on the counter. Every time I glanced at the phone, my heart rate jumped.
I considered calling Nakita and telling her I’d changed my mind, I didn’t want her to meet with him.
But then what if she posted about that? Would that kind of post embarrass Andreas?
What if she embellished our conversation?
I would ask her to keep it off socials, of course, but what if she—in a fit of impulsive exuberance while misguidedly trying to defend her stance as a Sam-Dreas shipper—posted about it anyway?
No, I can’t ask Nakita not to meet with him. The less I talk to Nakita about Andreas the better.
After forty minutes of arguments with myself, I finally caved. I grabbed the phone, walked to the living room, plopped down on the couch, unlocked the screen, and stared at the blocked numbers list for a full minute.
I scrolled to his. My thumb hovered over the Unblock button for a solid thirty seconds.
This was so dumb. Why was I even debating it? If I wanted to warn a person about the human spoiler machine that was Nakita in order to give myself some peace, that was my business.
Decided, I tapped Unblock. A brief spike of shame shot up my neck and into my cheeks.
I couldn’t help but feel like a sucker. After the way he’d treated me, I couldn’t believe I was this worried about him.
I set the phone on the couch cushion, then ran both hands through my hair and laughed at myself.
After a few breaths, I picked up the phone again, went into the text field, and began to type a message to his number. And erased. And typed again.
What was the right tone for a message like this? “Heads up, you’re about to have your privacy vaporized by a very sweet perpetual secret spiller”? “Meet with Nakita at your own risk”? “Don’t say I didn’t warn you when your conversation with Nakita is trending”?
In the end, I typed, “Meet with my friend Nakita if you wish, but please be careful about how much you share with her. Anything you tell her will likely end up being posted online.”
I hit Send.
Biting my thumbnail, I considered the possibility that Andreas had blocked me in return and he would never get the message. This might’ve been a silly thought, but OH WELL! So sue me. I’m silly.
Still fretful, I navigated to my inbox, found the latest email from Elio, and began typing a message that was similar to the text, only addressed to Andreas’s assistant.
Then my phone rang.
I jumped so forcefully at the vibration, the phone went flying into the air and landed behind the sofa with a clatter. Clutching my chest, I sucked down a gulp of air, then folded myself over the couch to retrieve my cell. The screen lit up with a number I knew by heart, despite everything.
For three rings, I stared at it, paralyzed.
Was this a test? What if it was a butt dial?
If I answered, would he finally apologize?
And if he did, what would I do? On the fourth ring, I decided I wasn’t going to answer.
I let it go to voicemail. Safer that way.
Then he could leave a message and I could spend the next hour debating my options.
The ringing stopped, but no voicemail appeared. I waited. Five minutes passed. Still no voicemail.
Gritting my teeth, I rolled my eyes. Of course not. If I mattered to him, if he were actually “madly in love with me” and he realized I’d unblocked him, why not take the opportunity to ask for a chance? Why not say sorry?
Releasing a frustrated laugh, I shook my head at myself. I should’ve known better. I’m a silly sucker.
I was just about to go into my contacts and block him again—so I wouldn’t be tempted to do something moronic of this nature ever again—when a text popped up.
Andreas: Can you talk?
I stared at the screen. It felt like the words were sitting on my chest and pressing down, making it feel heavy and hot. I blinked, waiting for something else. Eventually, the three little dots appeared, the universal sign of emotional purgatory, and then another message.
Andreas: Please.
Wiping my palm on my jeans, I considered the “please” for less than ten seconds, then tapped Call. I’d spent all afternoon with my circular thoughts. I didn’t want to overthink this. Instinct screamed at me to call, so I did.
He answered before the first ring even finished.
“Hello? Samantha?”
I had to clear my throat before I managed a steady, “Yes?”
I listened as Andreas inhaled an audible breath, then said, “I promise, I have no plans to say anything or reveal anything that might embarrass you. I planned to give her the information regarding Tobias’s case against you and his—”
“You’re a real shithead, you know that?” The words were out of me before I could catch them, but with my emotions so close to the surface after hours of fretting about his stupid asshole self, I didn’t care.
HOW FUCKING DARE HE.
This was pointless. I was not his ally. He did not value me. I was always going to be someone to plot against, to win over by any means necessary, to barter with.
Standing up, I set a hand on my hip and prepared to chew him out.
“Listen, I didn’t warn you because of me and my desire for privacy.
I warned you because I—like a fucking moron—don’t want to see you get hurt or blindsided when Nakita documents every word out of your mouth for her online friends.
She’s a great person. I love her. But she’s terrible with boundaries and secrets.
And I know you’re extremely careful about your priv—wait.
You know what? Forget it. I don’t know why I even bother! ”
I ended the call and immediately blocked his number again. Then, just for good measure, I threw the phone to the other side of the couch.
Storming off to the kitchen, I spun in a circle, looking for something else to wash and mentally cursing myself for my utter foolishness.
As I scrubbed at a baked-on stain on the lid of Kaitlyn’s favorite Dutch oven, I tried to pretend that the ache in my chest was merely a side effect of strenuous cleaning, and not the gory aftermath of accidentally getting my hopes up. For nothing.