“Like I said, codependent.”
“It works for us, so you can fuck off. Now tell me why you’re here, or I’m leaving.”
He heaves a sigh. “Fine. Bryce won’t talk to me. I’ve tried everything and he still won’t return my texts.”
An Elkington’s definition of “everything” is a lot different than the rest of the population. I need to approach this carefully.
“What have you done?”
“I text him my love every morning and every night, regardless. He’s ghosted me completely since moving to New York, but I know it’s a test. He wants to see if I’ll give up on us—I won’t. I send him gifts. I’m a little limited as to what I can send, because I’m worried Father’s going to cut off my funding any day now, and Rhett’s told me he’s only giving me a third of what Father was, but every spare nickel goes to Bryce and our future.”
Where do I begin with that? It’s hard to tell if he’s actually head over heels, or if he’s fixated like a damn psychopath on his next victim.
My first instinct is to hate him. What a spoiled fucking brat. Relying on Daddy’s money and then big brother’s money is pathetic. Some of us have to work hard for a living. Some of us can’t buy our boyfriends.
“What kind of gifts are you sending him?”
“I started with the usual, flowers, his favorite treats, and Bryce has a weird fascination with mugs, so I try to find ones I think will stand out in his collection.” He laughs. “I found himone that says ‘cup of fuckoffee’, because he’s such a grouchy Gus in the mornings.”
Grouchy Gus? I’ve never heard him talk all cutesy like that. And he’s smiling like it makes his fucking world. Man, maybe his feelings are real?
“Why do I get the feeling you didn’t stop there?”
“Because you’re perceptive, which is why I selected you as a potential friend.”
“Selected me?” Does this guy know how friendship works? Probably not. I don’t bother asking.
“How else would I go about the process? I measured our likes against our dislikes and sorted through our values. There’s an app—it’s never wrong.”
“Well, if an app said we should be friends, guess that’s it, then.”
He nods. Was I not sarcastic enough?
“Anyway, I bought him a brand-new Lexus. He was furious, which was something. At least I finally got a text message, even if it was just him threatening to cut my nuts off and bury them on the moon.”
He smiles at the memory as if it was one of the best days of his life.
“Have you tried, I dunno, respecting his boundaries?” That’s rich coming from me. The way I’d be on Trav’s ass if he even tried to reject me.
Maverick squints. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Give it a rest. Give him space.”
“That’s horrible advice. He’ll think I don’t love him anymore—I never want him to think that.”
“What if you … kept up the texts, but halted the other stuff, just for a little while,” I add when I can see that his brain’s about to implode.
There’s more to Maverick than meets the eye. He’s giving pathetic rich kid, but I’m sensing baby calf, just learning how to walk, at least when it comes to people. I don’t think he’s ever been shown the skills. This might be him trying his best. There’s an earnestness woven into the mild air of condescension swirling around him.
“I suppose I can do that. Until I’m pulled up, I should save and invest money for our future. When I’ve got NHL money, I can buy him whatever he wants.”
That’s something. He’s at least thinking about earning money rather than relying on family.
I’m about to consider this little pep talk wrapped up, but Maverick gets a faraway look in his eyes, a hand slides into his hair, and he tugs, nearly pulling it out. A red flush warms his face, and his expression’s an odd mix of angry, desperate, and forlorn.
“I know that I’m not normal,” he says quietly, restrained. “The therapists told me; my father tried to hide me from the world. But I’ve finally found my reason for being here. When I’m with Bryce, living is a joy rather than a chore.”
Is he gaslighting me? Or is this the real Maverick Elkington? I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing: A peek behind the curtain, or another grand illusion to buy my favor and get what he wants? I have a highly tuned bullshit meter, but I’m not infallible.
