Page 13

13

WARREN

The Sycamore staff are gathered in the employee break room. We’re pressed shoulder to shoulder, all thirty-something of us, and I’m about to combust with the effort of keeping my expression neutral.

Robbie stands at the front of the group, arms crossed over his chest, looking uncharacteristically serious. Beside him is one of the upper managers, a guy whose name I never bothered to learn, the kind of middle-aged golf dad who runs this place like a kingdom.

He steps forward, clears his throat, and lets his gaze sweep over all of us like he’s sizing up potential suspects. “We’ve got a problem,” he says, voice clipped. “Yesterday, a guest’s car was vandalized in the parking lot. Slashed tire, clean through.”

Silence. No one moves. No one even breathes.

I keep my face blank, arms loose at my sides. Lying doesn’t come easily to me, but I’ve learned to act from the best. To steady my breath when the heat crawls up my neck.

“Whoever did it needs to come forward now,” the manager continues. “If you do, we’ll deal with this internally. But if we have to investigate? If we have to pull security footage and turn this into a police matter?” He lets that sink in. “Then whoever’s responsible will not only be fired but also fined and possibly face jail time.”

Still, no one speaks. The waitstaff glance at each other. The grounds crew leans back like they’re trying to disappear into the wall, waiting for someone to twitch the wrong way, for someone to break.

Zane, standing a few feet away from me, shifts his weight. “How do they know it was an employee?”

The manager’s mouth flattens. “The guest parked in the overflow lot behind the staff building. It’s not officially restricted, but most members don’t even know it exists. Whoever slashed the tire would’ve had to know where the cameras don’t reach. Which means they knew the layout.”

“Is it possible it wasn’t on purpose?” one of the tennis instructors asks, casual, like he’s just tossing the thought out there. “Could’ve been a nail or something.”

“No,” Robbie says flatly. “It was a singular slash. Deliberate. Like from a knife.”

I stare straight ahead while they keep talking. Threats. Promises. A reminder that Sycamore’s reputation comes before any of us. Their voices blend into the background, dull and slow, like a radio set to the wrong frequency.

“Y’all are dismissed,” the manager says finally. “But let us be clear. If anyone knows anything and doesn’t come forward, you’ll be implicated, too.”

There’s a shuffling of bodies as people move toward the exit, murmuring under their breath. I’m the first one out, slipping through the doorway and into the hall like I’m in a hurry to get to my next shift.

Then, slender fingers pinch around my wrist and tug hard.

I glance down to find Quinn beside me. “Follow me,” she mutters, already moving.

I don’t argue.

She leads me past the staff lockers, around the back of the maintenance shed, a narrow strip of concrete between the building and the wooden fence that blocks the club from the road. It’s secluded. Quiet.

She turns on me the second we stop, scanning the area before lowering her voice. “Word on the street is it was Preston Beckett’s car.”

I tilt my head, feigning interest. “Huh.”

Her glare sharpens. “Huh? That’s all you have to say?”

I shrug. “Seems like he had it coming.”

Her lips press together. “I know it was you.”

I raise a brow, amused. “Yeah?”

“It had to be.”

I don’t confirm it. She knows I did it. I know she won’t say a word. But it’s better left unsaid. So, I pivot to something else. “You still never answered my text, by the way.”

She flinches. “Wesley’s okay. Of course he is, or I wouldn’t be here.”

“So, your phone does work, then?”

“Stop deflecting.”

I lean against the fence, arms still loose, giving her nothing. “It doesn’t matter who did it. It’s already been done.”

“But Beckett’s going to blame me,” she says, urgency threading her voice.

She must’ve done something—reprimanded him in the moment or said something after. I figured she bottled it up and let it all loose in the break room, alone, like she always does. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe she said something he didn’t like, and now he’s looking for payback.

“Why?”

“Because I snapped at him.” She swallows, like the words are harder to get out. “When he grabbed my ass, I snapped.”

A slow, simmering heat rises in my chest. I rein it in. Breathe slow and deep and count to four. I want to tell her that he deserved more than a snapped warning, more than a dirty look and a sharp word.

That I’m proud of her for standing up for herself and that I wish I’d seen it happen so I could’ve backed her up. But I can’t go there or say those sorts of things to her. Not anymore.

“You’re always snappy,” I say lightly. “Part of your charm.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

I glance down. Her fingers are still curled around my wrist and haven’t moved. I shift and press my thumb lightly against the inside of hers, tracing the warm skin of her pulse point.

Her breath catches, just slightly, and I don’t let go.

“I’m glad about Wes,” I murmur. I can give her that. It’s safe. Careful. Not loaded. “That he’s okay.” I hesitate, then add, “I hope you’re okay, too.”

Her mouth parts, her grip twitching. “Are you okay?”

I blink slowly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She studies me, like she’s trying to find something I’ve buried too deep, then huffs in disappointment. “Right.”

I clear my throat. “We should get back. Wouldn’t want to give upper management a reason to start snooping around.”

She nods, exhaling like she’s steadying herself. Then her lips twitch, just barely, and something dry slips into her tone. “As you wish, Clyde.”

It takes me a beat. Then I huff a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “Alright, Bonnie.”

I step back first, letting go of her wrist. She follows a second later, brushing her fingers over the spot like she can still feel the imprint of my touch.

Neither of us says anything else. We just walk back to work like nothing happened. Like we didn’t almost crack something back open and let the past rush in like it never left.

* * *

My cell phone won’t stop ringing.

It’s been buzzing in my pocket since I left Sycamore, but I ignored it on the drive. Ignored it when I pulled into the lot behind my building, gripping the steering wheel for a full minute before I could get out of the car. Ignored it as I fumbled my way inside the house, still tasting the sourness of rage on the back of my tongue.

But now I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes, parked in the empty lot behind the training center, watching the screen light up again.

Dad. Dad. Dad.

I already know what this is about. The missed calls stack up—three, four, five. He never leaves a voicemail. He just keeps calling, again and again, like if he persists, then maybe I’ll cave the way I used to.

I should let it go to voicemail. I should shove the phone deep into my bag and pretend I didn’t see. Instead, I press Accept and bring the phone to my ear.

“Yeah?”

Silence. A half-second pause before his voice filters through, casual, light, like we talk all the time.

“Hey, kid.” A breath. “Took you long enough.”

I don’t answer. Just wait.

He exhales sharply, like I’m the one being difficult. “What the hell are you so quiet for?”

And then—right on cue—the ask. “They raised my meal plan rates again,” he continues, voice dipping into that same, familiar strain—exasperated, put-upon, like the hardship is something happening to him, not because of him. “Damn near seventy extra a month now. Can you believe that? I told them I can’t afford that shit, but do they care? No. Place is a damn scam, Warren.”

I press my fingers to my temple. “That’s what your disability checks are for.”

“They barely cover it as is.”

“And whose fault is that?”

He scoffs. “Oh, fuck off. You’re real quick to judge, huh?”

I grit my teeth because this is the cycle. This is always the cycle.

He calls. He asks. And when I don’t immediately cave, he turns it around on me, like I’m an asshole for not handing over whatever scraps he’s looking for this time. Like I’m supposed to feel guilty.

I exhale slowly, forcing my voice even. “I can’t help you, Dad.”

A beat of silence. “You really gonna do that to me?”

The words hit their mark, like they always do. Not a question. A challenge. A subtle thread of disbelief, like the very idea that I could say no is absurd. This is my dad we’re talking about here, not some lowlife addict looking for his next hit.

My fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “Sorry.”

“Seventy bucks isn’t gonna ruin you, kid.”

He’s right, it wouldn’t. I could send it right now. I could open my banking app, transfer the money, and it wouldn’t set me back in any significant way. But that’s not the point.

Because it’s never just once. It’s never just seventy bucks. It’s the next thing, and the thing after that. It’s the calls and the guilt and the way he always, always makes it feel like I owe him something, like I should be grateful he even stuck around after my mom divorced him.

A muscle jumps in my jaw. “I can’t,” I say again. “I won’t.”

“You never let me starve before.”

I close my eyes. There it is. The gut punch. The thing he’s been holding in reserve, waiting for the moment he needs to twist the knife a little deeper.

Because even though he hasn’t been a real father to me in years, he knows I remember what it was like. Not when we all lived under the same roof, not when Mom was still trying to hold everything together. But after. After she finally kicked him out.

After the excuses ran thin. After the broken promises stopped being something she was willing to piece back together. After he ended up in that run-down trailer out on Ashwood Road, parked on some old friend’s property, surviving off whatever odd jobs he could scrape together between drinking himself to sleep.

I remember the first time I saw it. The sagging porch steps. The busted screen door. The way everything smelled like mildew and stale cigarettes. I was sixteen. Mom told me I didn’t have to go. That it wasn’t my responsibility. But I went anyway.

Because he was still my dad. The man who raised me and taught me how to throw a spiral and dive off the deep end. And back then, I didn’t know how to separate loyalty from love.

I’d show up once a week with groceries. Canned soup, sandwich bread, packs of ramen. The bare minimum. Nothing that would stretch my part-time paycheck too thin. But enough.

And every time, he’d laugh, like the whole thing was funny.

“What, you don’t think I can feed myself?”

But there’d be nothing in the fridge except a half-empty bottle of whiskey and an expired carton of milk.

He knows that, even now, even after everything, there’s still some part of me that hates the idea of someone going hungry when I could do something about it.

Because back then, I couldn’t just watch. I couldn’t stomach the thought, even when it wasn’t my job to keep him afloat. Even when he never once deserved it. And that’s what he’s counting on now.

That I’ll still be the kid who couldn’t walk away.

But he’s not starving. And I’m not that kid anymore.

I exhale hard through my nose. “You’re not gonna starve .”

“Right. I forgot you’re all grown up now. You’ve got it all figured out, don’t ya?”

I clench my jaw, gripping the wheel until my knuckles ache. I should hang up. I shouldn’t have bothered to answer in the first place.

But then he sighs, voice dipping into something closer to familiar. Something softer. “Look, I get it. You’re busy. Just—” A beat. “Just come by to see me soon, alright? We’ll talk then.”

I press my lips together. It’s unfair. Unfair because I know, no matter how much I want to be done with this, no matter how many times I say no, there’s still a part of me that will always care.

And he knows it, too.

I close my eyes. Swallow down the sharp thing lodged in my throat. “I’ll see you soon,” I mutter. And then, before he can say anything else, I hang up.

There’s that silence again. Immediate, heavy, and suffocating in its finality.

I drop my head back against the seat, jaw tight, breath shaky. Before, a moment like this would have sent me into a bit of a panic. A spiral I couldn’t crawl out of for days.

But lately, I’m not feeling much of anything at all. Just tired, a bit numb. And I think, in a way, that might be even worse.