Page 53 of Burning Daylight
“Oh, Roman,” she says, her voice syrupy sweet. “Calm down. It’s not the end of the world. You could fix all this in a snap…if you’d just listen to your mother.”
The nameRomangrates across my skin, but I don’t correct her. She’s doing it to get a rise out of me.
“Did you spend it all?” I ask.
She lifts a shoulder and then looks down at her nails like we’re talking about the weather.
Betrayal sinks its dagger through my chest, and I swallow the pain.
“I’ll make you a deal,” she continues, like we’re negotiating a car and not my little sister’s survival. “You call your father, and I’ll make sure Brooklynn never goes without again.”
I throw both my hands on my head as I stare at her. “Jesus Christ. Are youblackmailingme?”
She grins like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. Like she isn’t breaking apart the very foundation of our relationship by forcing my hand.
“I’m protecting us,” she corrects. “This family—your sister—deserves better. And he owes us at least that.”
“And if I don’t?”
She leans in, her eyes sparking. “Then you let him know we’ll stop playing dead. And we both know how much your father values his spotless reputation.”
13
ROMAN
Iglare down at my phone.
It’s been sitting in front of me for the past thirty minutes, next to the scrawled number my mom has had memorized for years and left at my apartment. But I haven’t had the courage to make the call I need to make.
Talking to my father isn’t as easy as just dialing a number and having a “catch-up” moment.
For me, at least.
I have no clue what it will be like for him, but I imagine it’s akin to speaking to a ghost. For all intents and purposes, nobody knows I still exist, and I’m under no illusion that I’m anything more to him than a bad memory he’d rather forget.
My issues with him are so deeply rooted, it makes picking up the phone almost impossible.
But then I think about Brooklynn. How she has a mysterious condition that can shift in an instant without warning, and how we have no health insurance.
How even though I covered what she needs, a ninety-day supply of her seizure medication is almost a thousand dollars.
A thousand fucking dollars.
As much as I hate to admit it, my mom is right. Brooklynn isn’t his daughter, but he might be the only one who can help her.
My throat tightens, and I shake my head to try and get it together.
Reaching out, I grab my phone, punch in the number from the piece of paper, and press send before I can talk myself out of it.
My leg bounces in time with my elevated heart rate, and it feels as if I’m running a marathon.
One ring.
Two.
I’m going to puke.
Three.
