Page 126 of Bad Blood

“If we have the files backed up, I don’t think the camera footage is necessary.” He reaches for the card. “I can let him know.”

“But I need to know who did this.” I let him take the card from between my fingers and instantly regret it.

“And we’ll find out, but it’s not a priority at the moment.” He holds up the card, inspecting it before he sets it into the open drawer beside him and swipes all the contents back inside, burying it like it has no significance. “Thank you for looking into all of this for me. I’ll take care of everything from here.”

I walk away with my head hung and my thoughts reeling.

Today is full of mistakes. One after another.

They were mine to make.

But, at this point, I want to burn it all down.

35

Duty Is Calling

Dax

Tuesday, June 6 th

12:06 a.m.

Desperate to escape thoughts about how I let Liam down, I take off on foot toward Central Park while he sleeps. I could use some time alone. No interruptions.

My side of the story doesn’t matter anymore.

Life happened. It hurt. And I’m doing my best to be there for Liam and make amends for what I did.

The blast of cool air as I exit the apartment building brings me back to my senses. I shove my hands in my pockets and tuck my head, uninterested in making eye contact with anyone I pass as I head north.

The glow of the buzzing streetlights guides my feet as my mind wanders along a different path. How am I supposed to be what Liam needs when he won’t tell me everything that’s going on? Why does he feel the need to keep me in the dark?

It’s like we’re lost in separate worlds. He wants to sign up for classes in the fall and return to soccer. I need him to focus on getting better and living in the present.

I don’t want to be insensitive, but I’m not naïve. The likelihood of Liam’s treatment succeeding and him returning to how things were doesn’t look good. His chances to improve are slim, and the chemo and surgery might not work. There’s no point in dwelling on something I can’t change, but the thought of it sucks the air from my lungs like a vacuum cleaner.

I don’t know why it’s so damn hard for him to open up and let me be there for him. He doesn’t have to shoulder the burden alone. He’s worried about how I acted after our parents died, but this is different, and I don’t know how to get him to understand. Liam has no qualms about reminding me I don’t get to play victim to the circumstances I created. Now, if I could get him to see I’ve changed, we’d be in a whole new ballgame.

I’m struggling to convince him to leave the grandparents out of this. And he refuses to elaborate on why he wants to call. We can figure this out on our own like we have everything else. There’s no need to involve them. If he gave me a plausible explanation about needing them to help with his treatment or being there because he wants his family around, I’d be more willing to relent. But he hasn’t, and he won’t. He’s convinced I won’t understand.

But why won’t he listen?

After they disowned our parents because they disagreed with their marriage, it’s hard for me to let them into our lives. They had no interest in being a part of it while they had the chance. They don’t deserve to be a part of it now.

I follow the path through Central Park leading past The Lake, head toward Seventy-Ninth Street, and cross over toward The Reservoir and out of the park. I pass The Guggenheim Museum and rub my hands over my arms to fight off the chill, jogging onto the sidewalk as I meander in and out of the streetlight.

The clatter of some trash cans and subsequent barking pulls my attention from my wandering thoughts. I glance behind me, searching for the source of the sound, and see an alley a few hundred feet back. Shadows cast over the street, and the silvery glow of the moon hides behind a wisp of clouds drifting across the sky.

The lights of an oncoming vehicle blind me, and I cover my face with my forearm, ducking my head and hurrying along the sidewalk as it parks at the curb.

Where in the hell am I?

The sound of footsteps behind me draws my attention, a shadow of a thought lingering. My eyes land on a familiar five-foot-sixish female stopped at a set of stairs leading to an immaculate brownstone. I smile. Three stories of white stone, black windowpanes, and a ten-foot door. If Brighton were a man, I’d assume she was trying to compensate for something.

When fate offers this type of opportunity, I have an obligation to take it. I stop next to her and stuff my hands in my pockets. What are the chances?

“We’ve gotta stop running into each other like this,” I say with a smile.

---