Page 103 of Wildest Dreams

Rhyland: I’m good. I’ll check in later though.

It was a good idea not to waste all my time with someone I was hardly going to see in a few weeks. And it was cruel to let Gravity keep forming an attachment to me when I had no intention of sticking around in her life in any serious capacity. Besides, I had to draw the line somewhere. When I found out Cosmos was sick, I dropped everything and ran to her. While it was nice in theory, it was a disaster in reality. I didn’t do relationships, monogamy, or loyalty. I was a hot fucking mess. Thanks to the people on the other side of my door, who were now banging on it with their fists, refusing to get the hint.

“Rhyland!” my mother chided in a rage. “Open up!”

The coffee machine tutted, and I slipped the mug inside, fixing myself a macchiato. I readjusted the elastic of my low-hanging gray sweatpants, saying hello to my morning semi, and scrolled through the headlines of the Financial Times on my phone.

“Rhyland.” It was my father’s turn to reproach me sternly from behind the door. “This is ridiculous. Not opening the door is not going to stop us from telling you the news. We’re just going to send you a long text about it.” Pause. “Worse, we’re going to voice message it to you. In five parts. Each three minutes apart. I know how much you loathe voice messages.”

True story. People under eighty who left voice messages were not fit to join polite society. We needed to banish them without parole. Who even did that?

Still, I wasn’t sold on the idea.

I sipped my coffee, sliding my ass onto a counter stool.

“You know.” My mother’s cunning tone arrived next, and God, I’d forgotten how much I hated her. How much her presence in my vicinity made my skin crawl. A coping mechanism after spending half my lifetime trying to get her to hug me, to say a good word, to accept me if not validate me. “A journalist person called me the other day. Someone from Tech World—”

My head snapped up from my phone. It was the biggest tech site in the world, frequented mainly by industry insiders.

“She told me you’re about to launch a huge app and asked if I’d be willing to talk about my soon-to-be-billionaire son. I said I respected your privacy.” She took a strategic, deliberate pause. “I might not remain so respectful, though, if you refuse to even open the door for your own mother.”

I checked the time on my watch—Apple, the absolute lowest of the lows—and groaned. Yup. It was not even 8:30 a.m., and I was already being blackmailed by the woman who birthed me.

I hopped off the stool and made my way to the door. Flung it open. My parents were standing exactly where I’d left them, my mother wearing one of her hippie tunics with leggings and a criminal number of bracelets and chains and my father wearing whatever the fuck she told him to wear. The control she had over this man had him in a choke hold. It was another reason why I was allergic to relationships. I liked my balls where they were, thank you very much.

“What do you want?” I asked tiredly, sipping my coffee.

“Aren’t you going to invite us in? Offer us some coffee?” My father glowered.

“No,” I said evenly. “Now answer my question.”

Then I noticed something. They were holding a dog each in their hands—one of those insufferable breeds that was tiny andloud and cost about the same as a luxury car. A Pomeranian, I think. The canine version of Farrah Fawcett, if you will. The minute my gaze landed on the two canines, I knew. I just knew. Suddenly, the reason my parents had sought me out in recent months finally made sense.

“No,” I said, resolute. “No way. I’m not doing it.”

To their credit, my parents didn’t even attempt to deny what this was about. “Oh, come on, son! We have nowhere to put them,” my father chastised.

“They’re not fucking accessories, Dad. You’re not supposed to put them anywhere. You’re supposed to take care of them.” My voice rose, and I hated that I was showing emotion. I never did with them. There was no point. “What made you think you’d be fit to become a dog owner? You did a shit job with your only son.”

“Here we go again.” My mother slapped her own thigh, shouldering past me and stomping into my apartment. My father followed suit. They put the tiny dogs down, letting them roam my living room unsupervised. One immediately ran to the kitchen island, raised its tiny leg, and took a piss on the leg of my Italian stool. My teeth slammed together, blood boiling. I closed the door, forcing myself to take a deep breath.

“You always seem to be complaining about the job we did with you, but you turned out fine, didn’t you?” My mother fixed herself and my father some coffee, making my place her own without asking. “Nice job, beautiful apartment in Manhattan, lots of friends. You want for nothing, Rhyland,” she huffed with a shake of her head.

I folded my arms over my chest, leaning against the counter. “What’s my job?” I asked tonelessly.

My parents exchanged blank looks. My teeth dug into my inner cheek. Even though I knew damn well they’d never made an effort to get to know me, this was next-level shocking.

“Don’t start,” my mother warned, aiming a teaspoon at me.

“No, I’m serious. What’s my job?”

“You studied business,” my father provided cautiously, as if this in any way showed they’d been involved in my life in the past decade—or before it. “You work in…finance?” He stared at me helplessly.

“Yes, finance.” My mother nodded, oozing bitter elegance. “And now you have this app thing going on.”

“I’m a whore,” I lied. Well, half lied, really. Maybe quarter lied. I was retired now.

My mother choked on her coffee midsip. My father shot me a horrified glare. The damn dogs jumped up on my leather couch, and by the smell of it, one of them was in the midst of taking a shit.

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