Page 10 of Bidding War

Tears streak down my face. “Why the hell not? I just want to be left alone! You’re not good for me, don’t you get that? This is too complicated. It’s too hard!”

He looks crushed, and I hate that I’ve crushed him. But now he knows how I feel. Maybe that’s a good thing.

He begs, “Don’t say that. You don’t mean it.”

“I do,” I sob. “This has to stop.”

“No—"

“Whatever this is, whatever we are, I have to end it. Now. Before things get worse.”

“My father will pay?—"

“Your father will get away with it. Just like he gets away with everything else. I can’t do this anymore. I’m done, Anderson. I don’t want a relationship with you. I want to forget I ever knew you.”

At that, he stops speaking. He just stands there, dazed.

I can’t tell if his silence is a relief or not. But I run across the street and away from him. I have to get home. All I want is to put on my pajamas and to pour a big bottle of vodka into a tub of vanilla ice cream and smash my face into it. It’s not just Anderson I want to forget about. It’s every damn thing in my life.

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6

ANDERSON

Idon’t know how long I stand on the sidewalk where June shattered me. But it’s long enough that the sun finished going down, and it’s too cold out here for me to stay. I stumble toward my car in a daze. Her words carved out all the happiness she had put into me. Every bit of June-shaped joy in my heart is gone.

My father has won again.

It’s enough to make me drive to his apartment in the city. I want to beat the shit out of that man. He took away my money. He made me complicit in the murder of three people. And now, he’s taken June from me.

When she said it was my father, I didn’t want to believe it. I tried to push back against that narrative, but every counterargument she threw at me made too much sense. I don’t know how he did it. Sure, we send her firm clients, but I didn’t think we had that much influence over them. It’s startling to consider. But if we have that much influence over a simple tax firm, then where else do we wield influence?

Did this happen because he called in a favor or because he’s blackmailing someone? Did firing June pay off a debt someone owes him? If so, what is her destitution worth to him?

Me. It’s worth me.

Dad always talks about how smart June is. He did this, knowing she would put two and two together. He left his fingerprints on this for her to find. For her to blame me. He did this to make her break up with me. Son of a bitch, it fucking worked.

My head digs back against my car seat as I sit on the street below my father’s apartment. If I go up there now, I won’t control myself. It will be brief but violent. I cannot do that to my mom. That woman is a saint, and she is always home. I can’t fight him with her around.

I have to leave.

So, instead of storming into his place, I storm into mine. It’s a large corner apartment in downtown with floor-to-ceiling windows and an expansive bedroom. Everything is decorated in blues and grays, perfect for relaxing after a long day.

Today has been the longest day.

On the drive over, my day shuttles through my mind. Between the pall of my father hanging over my head, spending too much time setting Rena up with a proper paparazzi pic to deflect her followers from unsubscribing, and getting colossally dumped in the middle of the street, I am so fucking done with today. I take responsibility for the parts I played in getting dumped. It was my idea to blackmail my father. My idea for June to play the role of my fiancée. I own those mistakes. But everything else has been his fucking fault.

And I want him to pay.

The part of this that sits on my shoulders feels like it might crush me under the weight of it. I can’t take back what I did. But I also can’t make it up to her if she won’t see me. I like fixing things. It makes me feel useful. But there is no fixing this. Not really. I know that.

She said she wishes she never met me. How in the fuck do I fix that?

I fling my keys into the bowl on the hall table as soon as I walk in. It feels good to throw things. Maybe I should go to one of those axe-throwing bars. I could fling sharp things and drink cheap beer until I get drunk enough to pathetically call June and beg her to take me back like I’m some kind of breathing cliché. Nah. I’d probably end up dropping an axe on my foot, with the way my luck is.

Pfft. Luck.

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