Page 173 of False God

“I don’t like being a passenger since my accident,” he confides, a couple of minutes later. “It’s … I feel more in control. I don’t get into a car unless I’m the one driving it.”

“That’s understandable. It makes sense, I mean.”

And then something else occurs to me as he takes the next exit.

“I … you letmedrive you.”

More than a little reluctantly, but I attributed that resistance to my injury and his fancy car.

“I know.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t tell me not to read into it or that it meant nothing.

“I’m … honored, I guess.”

The corner of his mouth I can see curves up. “You should be.”

Signs for the airport appear ahead. I remind Charlie of my terminal number.

Each second that passes, it feels like my heart is pounding faster.

I don’t know how to say goodbye to him. It’s neverbeena goodbye. He walked away in the Hamptons. He just left Saint-Tropez, me waking up alone with his side of the bed cold. Assuming he’d just woken up early and was already downstairs, until Chloe handed me a scrawled note with a concerned expression. And I all but shoved him out the door in New York, essentially to avoid this exact situation.

Every time, it’s worse.

There are more memories. More feelings. I keep waiting for those to reach a point where they’ll stop, too, but it hasn’t happened yet.

Missing people isn’t a novelty for me. Growing up, we split time between New York and LA. An accommodation my parents made for me because the New York school had better resources for my reading disability. As a trade-off, we spent school breaks and summers in California. With the exception of Gigi’s Red, White, and Blue party, of course. I’d miss people in New York when I was in LA. People in LA when I was in New York. My family, when I left for college. Chloe, then Cal, when they moved to London.

But missing has never been this physical ache before. This hollow sensation in my stomach, like a part of myself has been carved out and is being left behind.

Charlie pulls along the curb outside theDeparturesentrance and turns off the car.

It’s overcast out, so he put the convertible’s cover up before we left. I almost asked him to braid my hair anyway, but I got distracted by saying bye to Blythe.

He looks serious, spinning the keys around his thumb—soserious—and all the lighthearted farewells I spent the drive here brainstorming fly right out of my head.

Charlie blows out a long breath. “I need to tell you something. Several things actually.”

“Okay.” My palms are starting to sweat, so I discreetly rub them against the joggers I wore for the flight. I’m flying straight to DC, but my meeting there isn’t until tomorrow, so I dressed casual today.

“I should have told you sooner. I meant to tell you sooner. I just didn’t know how to. Didn’t want you to think …” He stares out the windshield. A few water droplets fall on it. “I foundout, after he died, that my father had lost our entire fortune. Gambling, bad investments, huge donations, unnecessary renovations. I don’t know the extent of it all, honestly. He was … he always acted larger than life. Maybe he was just too proud to admit he had made mistakes. I inherited all of his debt, along with the title. For the past year, I’ve been doing everything I can to avoid bankruptcy. To get investors and sell off enough to keep everything else afloat. To keep up appearances. If I declare bankruptcy, they’ll take everything. If it were just me, it’d be one thing. But Blythe? My grandmother? All the staff? There’s a deal on the table, one that will wipe out the debts in full. Save as much as possible. But I’ll lose control of businesses and buildings that have been in my family for generations in the process, and that’s …” He swallows. “That’s been hard to accept.”

It takes me about twenty seconds to process everything he just told me. “I’m so sorry, Charlie.”

Pieces that didn’t make sense before start to click into place. Why he was selling the French villa, his vagueness about work, the resentment toward his father.

“You’re doing what you have to do.”

He nods. “I know I am. Hasn’t made it any easier, but I’m accepting it. It’s been impossible to move past while I was still worried about losing everything. As soon as I sign the deal, I think it’ll be easier.”

I swallow. “Charlie, I could …”

“No.” His answer is immediate, before I’ve even gotten the offer out. “I’m not taking money from you. And it’s part of why I didn’t tell you sooner. I don’t want you to ever think that I would, that your wealth has anything to do with us.”

“It could just be a loan.”

“I’m not taking money from you,” he repeats. “But I want everything else. I wantyou, Lili. I just … I need a little time to sort things out. This deal is going to eliminate some of myresponsibilities, and I’m-I’m considering going back to medical school. Reclaiming a little of what my life looked like before my father died.”

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