Page 2 of Royal Surrogate 1

Damn it all to hell.

I drop my cell phone on the table, squeezing my eyes shut to stop the tears that are accumulating in my lower lashes. I don’t have time to cry. I have to think.

My basket of fries sits untouched in front of me. Normally, I’m the kind of girl who believes good french fries can fix anything, but not today. Even my orange Creamsicle milkshake doesn’t look appetizing anymore.

A million dollars. Where the hell am I going to get a million fucking dollars? I can hardly cover my rent these days, let alone save up that kind of money.

Joyce comes over, a coffee pot in her hand and a frown on her face. “Something bothering you, Rennie? That looked like one heck of a phone call.”

Normally, I’m only too happy to spill all the messy details of my life to Joyce—after almost two years of my regular visits to this restaurant, she’s become something of a friend—but today I shake my head.

“You sure?” She props her free hand on her hip. “Forgive me for saying so, Ren, but you look like you’re about to have a breakdown. Is it that manager of yours again?”

I wish this was just about Donald. How that pencil-dick of a human being ever got a job overseeing the academic libraries at Lake Washington University I’ll never know.

“No, no, nothing like that,” I assure her. And then, because I’ve never been good at holding things inside, I blurt, “It’s about my dad.”

I don’t have to elaborate. Joyce takes one look over her shoulder—presumably to see if any customers need immediate service—then slides into the booth across from me.

“What’s going on?” she asks.

I take a deep breath and swallow the lump in my throat before attempting to speak.

“Remember that experimental treatment I told you about?”

Joyce nods. “From that fancy German doctor.”

“Yeah.” I pick up a french fry and dab it at the mound of ketchup on my plate, even though I have no intention of eating. “Dad got approved.”

“Rennie, that’s great!” The enthusiasm in Joyce’s voice mirrors what I felt at the beginning of the phone call when I initially heard the news. For the first time in three years, I actually allowed myself to hope.

But that hope was dashed as quickly as it was allowed to bloom.

“Yeah, well, they won’t give it to him,” I tell her.

“What?”

“His insurance won’t cover the treatment because it’s ‘experimental’,” I say, disgust thick in my voice. “And apparently the treatment costs a million dollars out of pocket.”

Joyce’s eyes nearly bulge out of her head. “A million dollars?”

“One point two million, to be exact.” I’ve managed to crush the end of my french fry into mashed potato, so I toss it onto the plate. “Dad’s savings and retirement accounts are already basically drained at this point. And I’m funneling everything I can into paying for his physical therapists on top of what the state provides for his care facility, but unless Donald decides to give me an unexpected raise, I’m bleeding dry. I probably shouldn’t even be eating out.”

“You deserve a raise,” Joyce points out. “You practically run that library yourself. And you put up with entitled undergrad students all day.”

“If anyone deserves a raise here, it’s you,” I counter. “I know what kind of bullshit customers put you through.”

“Speaking of, I should probably get back to work.” Joyce slides out of the booth. “It looks like Mr. Baldy down at the end there is starting to get grumpy.” She pauses next to me, putting her hand on my shoulder and squeezing. “Don’t give up hope just yet, Rennie. Sometimes these things work out.”

She gives me an encouraging smile, and I smile back, but my mouth falls again as soon as her back is turned. I want to be hopeful, but I’m too much of a realist for that. Or maybe my aptitude for hope dried up the day my dad got in that accident three years ago.

I stare at my plate of french fries and my half-melted shake, trying to will myself to find my appetite again. If I don’t eat something before work, I’m going to regret it. But I can’t seem to make myself hungry.

My phone buzzes on the table. A knot twists in my stomach, the same way it does every time my phone rings these days, but when I see Donald’s name on the screen, I groan inwardly and make myself answer.

“Where are you?” he snaps as soon as I answer the call.

“What do you mean? I’m not coming in until one today.”

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