I’ve bypassed feeling hurt, and I’m seething right there in anger. “That’s blackmail, son.”
“And last I checked, hiring a prostitute was still illegal in the state of North Carolina.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It doesn’t take a genius to deduce he was upset about finding me with someone who wasn’t Lorelei, but to dothis. Unbelievable.
Our food gets dropped off, and he digs in like he isn’t trying to blackmail a Supreme Court judge. After a few bites, he glances over at me. “Well?”
“Well, what, Ryan?”
“Do we have a deal?”
A sour taste plagues the back of my throat. “And how much, exactly, did you have in mind?”
“Four thousand.”
My brows shoot to the ceiling. “A month?!”
“Yes, a month.”
“Ryan, that’s ridiculous.” He’s lost his damn mind.
“It’s not. I live in California, one of the most expensive places to live.”
“You live in student housing,” I retort, trying hard to contain the volcano boiling inside of me.
He lets out an exasperated sigh. “Do we have a deal or not? I have to leave to meet the guys soon, so arguing with you isn’t high on my list of things to do today.”
There aren’t many moments in my life I look back on and feel shame. I’m a firm believer that things happen for a reason, whether that reason is clear or not, so shame or regret are useless. I am who I am. But this moment, right here with Ryan, my only son… this is my deepest moment of shame. While I know several reasons, both legally and ethically, why this should be shut down immediately, I’m going to agree to it anyway, because he’s my son and I’m desperate for a chance at a relationship with him.
I’m desperate for him to change his mind about me.
Desperate for weekends talking football while we share a six-pack of beer.
Desperate to know about his life—if he’s seeing anybody, what his classes are like, what he likes to do for fun outside of football. I don’t know any of that and I’m fuckingdesperateto.
So, against my better judgement, with shame coating my insides, I agree.
Because I miss my fucking son.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bodhi King
Watching my roommates play pool together, it’s glaringly obvious how different I am. Camden is carefree and outgoing; he could make friends with anybody. People flock to him and his warm energy. Working a crowd isn’t hard for him. He’s a genuinely happy guy.
Elias is empathetic andveryextroverted. He has this uncanny ability to make you feel seen. He’s the guy in a big group of people who makes sure you know that he’s listening to you even when you aren’t sure anybody else is. I know he’s had his own struggles mentally, but he’s able to maintain a glass half full mentality. It’s what I love about him.
Out of the three of us, I’m the dark cloud. The black sheep. It’s clear as day, and, more often than not, it makes me not even want to be around them. I’m a toxic sludge that weighs them down.
They, of course, don’t see it that way—or at least, to my face they say they don’t—but I’m not stupid. It has to be exhausting to be around someone so dark and down all the time. Even nights like tonight when they begged me to come hang out with them for a few hours, and I’m trying my hardest to put on a happy face, it’s clear how different we are.
Why can’t I be more like them?
Why can’t smiles and true happiness come as easily to me as it comes to them? It’s like I was born with that part of my brain missing. It’s a feeling I’ll never be able to achieve. There isn’t a single memory in my mind of me being happy and carefree. Not a single fucking one.
I’m broken. Paved from pain and misery.
Sometimes I feel like I’m holding everyone back. Forcing them to drown with me when all they want is to pull my head above the water. And most days, I’m positive they’d be better without me. Without having to worry about poor, pathetic Bodhi.
