Page 186 of The Otherworld

“No. Just shut up and listen to me for a second. You may be older, but you have way less experience with girls. The brush-off is a test. Maybe Orca doesn’t see it that way because she’s so pure and naive, but the same rules apply. She takes a step back, says it’s for the best, and now it’s up to you to prove you’re serious. No girl wants you to leave her alone when she says ‘Leave me alone’—it’s like Morse code for ‘How much do you care?’”

Now I’m doing mental gymnastics, trying to see it from this perspective. “I don’t think that’s the case here, Jack—”

“Don’t you love her? Aren’t you willing to fight for her? ’Cause if not, maybe you don’t deserve her.”

I hit the brakes, turning to shoot my brother a hard look.

He puts his hands up, shrinking back as if he’s afraid of getting punched again. “It’s just the truth, man. She’s not my girlfriend, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want the best for her.”

“I want the best for her, too. That’s what I’m trying to do, here.”

“And do you really think it’s best for you both to go back to being lonely and miserable again? Seriously, think about it. What do you have to lose?”

I pull into the driveway, park my truck, and kill the engine. Jack’s question hangs in the air, burning for an answer. Even Lucius seems to be waiting for my response—his big, droopy eyes gazing up at me from the center console.

At last, I shake my head and admit, “Nothing. I have nothing without her.”

* * *

All night long, I can’t sleep. Orca’s voice haunts me, her words playing back again and again like a broken record.

How she blames herself for her father’s heart attack.

How she is willing to give up everything she wants just to keep him safe.

I remember how she looked sleeping beside me just a few nights ago: her long, dark eyelashes against her rosy cheeks, her breathing soft and heavy. I imagine running my fingers through her hair, kissing the sweet hollow of her neck. The thought alone is enough to make everything I feel for her rise to the surface like a fever in my blood.

I would wait forever for her—for us.

But at the same time, I feel like I can’t wait a single day.

When dawn breaks, I drive back to the hospital, praying Orca will be asleep when I get there. Sure enough, she’s curled up on a bench seat in the waiting room with her arm tucked underneath her head. I don’t wake her. It’s better if she doesn’t know that I’m here.

I beg a passing nurse for the favor of seeing Mr. Monroe, and she reluctantly agrees after checking to ensure he’s awake and wants to see me.

When I step into the room, I find Mr. Monroe sitting upright in his hospital bed, still weak—but looking stronger than he did yesterday. He glances up when I enter, an unmistakable glint of gratitude in his eyes.

“Mr. Monroe.” I pull up a chair and sit beside the bed, facing him. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, thanks to you and your brother. I owe you both a great debt.”

I shake my head. “It was the least we could do. Especially after…” I clear my throat, abandoning the rest of that sentence. “Well, I’m just glad we got there in time.”

Silence fills the room. Mr. Monroe looks at me like he’s expecting me to say something else. Like he knows exactly why I’m sitting here, and his daughter is not.

After a moment, he prompts me. “Is Orca sleeping?”

“Yes, sir. In the waiting room.” I lean forward on my knees, clasping my hands together. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I wanted to speak with you privately, without Orca around.”

“I have a pretty good idea,” he says.

I’m not sure how to begin, so I just come right out and say it. “Mr. Monroe, I love your daughter. And she loves me. God knows I don’t deserve her love, but I’ll endeavor to be worthy of it. I know you’re a man of action, not words. So I want to show you—to prove to you—that I’m worthy of her.” I straighten up, looking him square in the eyes. “Sir, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to earn your trust… and your consent to marry her.”

Mr. Monroe studies me up and down for a long moment. “How old are you, son?”

A stab of insecurity twists in my chest. “Twenty-eight.”

He doesn’t seem put off by my age. In fact, he seems to take me more seriously after learning it. “So you’re not some impetuous boy moved to such a confession by impulse or a mere fleeting emotion.”

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