Page 38 of Yield to Me

Chapter 21

Tinny sounds rang through the suite. I had fallen asleep in exhaustion right next to Owen, even after I had changed my mind and sworn I would sleep in a different room. I sat up, grasping for my phone. Owen didn’t even stir. Regina Glass blinked on the screen. It was past two a.m.

“Mom?” I asked.

“He’s gone, Riley. He’s gone!” Regina sobbed. I consoled my mother as best as I could, but she was frantic, rambling and crying. She even screamed. I quickly told my mother I was coming home and hung up the phone. I tapped Owen’s shoulder until his eyes fluttered open.

“I need to go home,” I said. Owen sat up, rubbed his eyes.

“What? What’s going on?” he said.

“My father died.” The words were strange on my tongue: my father. I hadn’t called Grayson that in over ten years.

Neither of us said anything in the two hours it took to drive back to San Francisco. I looked out the window, staring into the darkness, and Owen concentrated on the road. Only the hum of the engine and the air conditioning filled the silence between us. I wondered why he had insisted on taking me home himself; I told him I could go with his driver. I figured it would be easier on the both of us.

The house was dark when we pulled up. I stared at the house, hesitating, not wanting to go forward, but knowing I couldn’t go back.

“I don’t even know where he was when he died,” I said quietly. I don’t know why I said it. I guess I wanted to say something, anything to hear Owen say something back. The look in Owen’s eyes was tired and strained, but emotionless. It was as if he was practicing holding his guard up around me, though I still couldn’t figure out why.

“Tell me if you need anything,” he said.

“That’s what you do that for someone you care about,” I said. I glared at him. “You made it perfectly clear that you don’t care about me.”

He sighed, looked up at the house, then back at me. “I said I don’t want a relationship with you,” he said. “I don’t need it.” He paused, locking eyes with me. “I don’t need you. But it doesn’t mean I can’t help you.”

“Wow,” I said, anger flushing my face. “Did you ever think that I don’t need your help? Fuck your handouts, Owen.” I ripped the choker off of my neck and threw it at him. “And fuck your collar!”

As I turned to face the house, the car tires squealed, screeching through the empty street, and his engine roared away. I don’t need this, I told myself, fighting off the tears. I don’t need Owen Lowell. My heart ached, knowing that once again I had trusted someone and been betrayed.

Booking a flight to Miami on short notice proved financially difficult. My mother and I had saved money, but with taxis rides and hotel fees on top of the fact that bills were due soon, making it to the funeral wasn’t going to be easy. Still, we both knew they had to go, whether or not we should.

At a connecting flight in Nashville, Owen texted: I have a condo on Brickell Key.

Despite my better judgment, I responded: And I care, why?

Because it’s located in Miami.

I wrinkled my nose. My mother, frantic with caffeine in her system, eyes bloodshot and a fake smile plastered on her face, peered over my shoulder. “Who’s that?” she asked.

“Owen,” I said.

“Oh, how’s he doing?”

“Don’t know; don’t care.”

“What’s he want then?”

I scowled. “He wants to put us up in his condo.”

“In Miami?” My mother perked up, leaning in to read the text messages. I scoffed and hid the phone’s screen against my chest. “Don’t be an idiot. Take him up on it.” She glanced at her purse, then opened up her own cell phone. “Lord knows we could use it.”

I wasn’t going to tell my mom no at a time like this. I sighed, and asked for the address, but not asking how the hell he knew we were going to Miami. I assumed he was being his resourceful self. He sent the information and said one of his drivers would pick us up from the airport and take care of us. It pained me to accept the offer, but I knew my mother was right. We needed money for our regular bills too; adding to credit card debt was the last thing we wanted to do. And I told myself that maybe it was okay to accept help at a time like this. Maybe. If your mother made you.

I will be paying you back, I texted.

Fine, he responded.

The condo had a large patio that overlooked Biscayne Bay. Emerald green water shimmered in the sunset. While my mother had escaped to the bathroom throughout our cross country traveling to cry in peace, I felt nothing. I stared at the sparkling water, wondering if it was wrong that I felt no attachment for a man that walked out on the two of us over twelve years ago. I didn’t even know how he died, how he came to live in Miami, or how my mother had found out. I was there to support my mother, not to grieve for some stranger I shared blood with.

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