Page 25 of This Might Hurt

I rub my thumb back and forth across the worn metal of the lighter like a child trying to soothe themselves as I stare at him. “Why did you pick me?” I murmur, finally. Five words, small enough to get lost under the beeping of the monitors but vast enough to encompass my entire existence.

“Because you’re the only person in this family who’s soft enough to still believe in something.

You understand all the causes people care about these days.

You remember the names of the staff; you play with their kids.

You’re marketable. People feel good when they give their money to someone with a conscience. ”

When I open my mouth, he shakes his head sharply.

“Don’t. I’m only going to say this once.

My sons and your fiancé are going to stop complaining and run the company behind the scenes.

If you want a pet project, ask them. While they work, you will show the world how forward thinking we are, give everyone something pretty to look at, and do what you’re told. ”

“Oh.” The silence lingers for a very long time. I glance at the flowers in their vase, the heavy purple blooms I thought might remind him of his home country. The skin on my fingers still feels tender where the thistles stung me.

My sharp laugh surprises me as much as it does him.

“Really? That’s it?” I’ve known since I could comprehend words that my mother made me for the sole purpose of leading this company.

Sometimes I’ve accepted that truth. Other times, like last week, it almost killed me.

But apparently that was being too generous.

Apparently I was conceived to do absolutely fucking nothing. “Why did you never tell me?”

His face twists a little, disgust and something sharper, like he didn’t expect me to fucking laugh at him.

“Why would I? If you deserved more, you would have seized it by now. At your age Archie had already saved us from a regulatory scandal and turned the situation around for profit. Colin had streamlined our workforce and raised our margins by thirty percent. Why the hell would you expect more when you’ve never been willing to draw blood? ”

Collecting my notebook, I smooth the cover between my hands like an injured bird picked up off the road.

My head is starting to go still, like I’ve reached my flatline state.

Only it isn’t quite right. I’m somewhere deeper and darker, but not like at the river.

It’s peaceful here. “I never wanted to draw blood,” I say quietly, less because I’m trying to convince him of something and more because I just want him to hear the words.

“But I’m pretty sure you let me believe that if I obeyed you and my uncles, I’d be allowed to do something that mattered. ”

“Maybe. Maybe not. You’ve always had a tendency to assume things.” He’s talked too much; I can hear the sickness rattling in his throat, thinning out his voice until it’s lost most of its power.

I wasn’t entirely sure I’d be able to stand up when the time came, but my body finds the strength somewhere to get me on my feet.

The feeling that I should be much, much more distraught than I am is the most disconcerting part of all this.

“If I told you I’m not okay…” I pick my way through the words slowly, studying the IV line taped to his wrinkled hand.

“Would it matter? Do you care if this destroys me?”

When I find his eyes, they’re dull and strangely empty. “I’m going to die, Andrew. The only thing I have left to care about is my legacy. You understand that.”

“Yes, I do.” I button my blazer carefully.

He’s given me his final words, but I don’t know what mine should be.

I’ve never said I love you. No one in this family has, because none of us know what love is.

“I enjoyed that summer in Scotland,” I say finally.

“When we made that box for the chaffinches to nest in behind the house. And you taught me how to ride.” I squeeze his hand in a short, firm handshake.

“I’ll remember what you told me, sir. About drawing blood. I won’t forget.”

As I start to back out of the room, something uneasy flickers across his face, something about my words or the tone of my voice.

But it’s too late. Before he can speak again, I’m out in the lobby pulling in a breath that doesn’t smell like sickness.

Lillian has a box of tissues ready in her hand, but when she sees I’m neither weeping nor bereaved, she sets them down.

I study her, wondering if she’s changed in the last ten minutes or if I accidentally left myself back in that room and emerged in someone else’s body.

Seeing my expression, she sends me down in the elevator alone without a word. I pull out my phone and call Grant. “Bring the car around.”

“On my way.”

I stare at my palm, scraped up by all those flower stems this morning. It still remembers the slippery pressure of Jude’s hand in the mud, how it felt to believe I was so worthless that all I could do was die. Now I’m worth even less than that, but somehow it doesn’t hurt as much.

While I wait on the curb in the sun, I flick through my contacts and dial a charter broker who doesn’t work directly for my family. “I need a plane waiting for me at Stewart tomorrow morning at ten.”