Page 101 of Best Kept Secret
“Of course,” Sharon says. “But, Loga—” She pauses, and there’s an obvious hesitation.
“What is it?” I push.
“Treetops is one of the more, um, expensive centers in New Jersey. There are state facilities. Other more affordable?—”
“Money isn’t an issue,” I interject, probably a little arrogantly, but I don’t care. “I’m not relocating her anywhere because—” I stop myself. I can’t tell this stranger on the phone that the reason my mother is at Treetops isn’t just because it’s the best. She’s there because it’s right down the street from the cemetery where her son is buried, and I make an effort to take her to see Levi every year when his birthday comes around in August. Clearing my throat, I say, “She’s happy there.”
When I get off the phone with Sharon, my heart is racing a million beats a minute, my hand trembling as I glare down at the black screen. I take a few steadying breaths, glancing around the room, my eyes landing on Mel, the team’s PR manager.
Snaking my way through the maze of hospital staff, parents, children, random toys, and dolled-up teammates, I tap Mel on her shoulder.
“Hey, Loges.” She smiles up at me.
I force a smile I know doesn’t meet my eyes. “Hey, I’ve had a family emergency come up.” I hold my phone up as if that’s evidence enough. “Is it okay if I take off early?”
Mel glances around the space, looks down at her phone and,nodding once, she juts her chin toward the door. “Go on. I’ll cover for you.”
“Thank you.” I squeeze her arm and turn, hurrying out before anyone can notice my speedy departure.
Red: Where are you?
Red: Logan?
Red: Dallas and Emily are on their way.
Red: When will you be home?
Red: Baby, I’m worried.
Hunched low in my car, I chew on my thumbnail as I read Millie’s text messages. I hate that she’s worried. I hate making her worry. I never want to be the cause of her worry. I should reply. I should let her know that I’m okay. But I can’t. Because I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here, and I know if she knew where I was right now, where I’ve been for the last forty minutes, and the mental state that I’m currently in, it’d only cause her more worry.
I glance out at the sprawling colonial, with its immaculate gardens, taking it in. The front door my mother painted red is now black, the welcome sign long gone. The elm tree that Levi and I hung a tire swing from has been cut down, the stump removed. The place I grew up is long gone, and nothing but a house remains.
I should leave.Should. But instead, with a fortifying breath, I hop out of my car and head up the stone path to the front door, pressing the button for the doorbell, my hands balling into fists at my sides while I wait.
A few long moments pass before the black door opens, and my father appears, dark gaze landing on me, face stoic and expressionless. Not a hair out of place, he’s dressed in a pair of khakis, a quarter-zip sweater, skin tan even after a long, cold winter.
“Son,” he says by way of greeting, voice flat.
I stare at him long and hard, fists clenched.
Dad steps out onto the porch, arching a brow, gaze flitting from me to my car and back to me, arching a brow. “Do you want to come in?” he asks slowly, almost sarcastically.
“No, what I have to say won’t take long.”
The hint of a malicious smirk ghosts his lips, but he suppresses it, clearing his throat as he folds his arms across his broad chest, looking down his nose at me, waiting.
I lick my lips, considering my words. There is so much I want to say. So much I need to say. But staring at him, at the man I once looked up to, idolized, the man I used to try so damn hard to make proud all while wondering what the hell I did wrong, why he didn’t love me the way he loved Levi, it’s as if all the words I’ve been desperate to say fail me.
“You stopped paying Mom’s Treetops bill.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“I told you that place was too expensive.” He shrugs a shoulder. “Business has been slow.”
I make a point of looking up at the house he lives in. The house that’d have to be worth at least a few million. I glance at the shiny Maserati parked in the drive. The guy owns five car dealerships in the tri-state.
“So what? You just decided to stop paying?” I grit. “You could havetoldme.”
“Must’ve slipped my mind.” He shrugs again, completely unapologetic, and that’s what does it. His absolute disregard for my mother, for me. I can’t help myself, and I launch at him, my fist connecting with his jaw and knocking him backwards. Theonly thing stopping him from falling to the floor is the door he grabs hold of, steadying himself.
