Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72853 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Rick grunts. “Not my taste.”
“The couches were a little bit hard,” I admit.
“They’re shite. It’s all shite. Expensive, needless, useless shite. Do I like any of it? No, I don’t. I hate the inside of this place as much as I hated those gardens out there. I might be an asshole for letting them die, but fuck it. It’s done.”
I don’t think he’ll appreciate it if I straight-up ask him if he’s okay. Because clearly, he’s not. He has some trauma about his grandpa and the house, the gardens, and the things in it. All expensive things.
“What happened to your grandma?”
Rick freezes with a sculpture in his hands. It’s abstract, a series of metal twists interlocked through each other. “She died before I was born.”
“What about your parents?” I’m pushing too hard and being rude. Yet somehow, I think this is the only approach he’ll tolerate.
“They died too,” he answers.
I swallow hard. The peanut butter is really sticking my mouth together. It makes my throat so damn dry. “How?”
“Boating accident. They were partying on a yacht with some other rich people. They left me at home with a nanny, I guess. I was only a few months old. I don’t hold it against them. They loved me, or so I’ve been told, and it was in that way that someone who has never had a real emotion in his life and who loves things more than people, even his own flesh and blood, blurted it out without any understanding of it, so I knew it was the truth. Whoever was in charge of the thing didn’t put proper lights on. Also, they were drunk and didn’t do half the shit they were supposed to do. They got hit. There were eight people there, and they all died.”
“What? Oh my god! I’m so sorry.” My hands shake, and I’m worried I’m going to drop the plates, mine with his stacked under it.
He lifts a shoulder. “As I said, I was only a few months old.”
“But…who raised you then? Your grandpa? He sounds like a feral old fuck!”
His lips twitch. “Feral old fuck. That’s probably the most accurate description I ever heard. No, he didn’t raise me. He was supposed to, but he had nannies for that, then boarding school, and right after that, I did the last thing he ever wanted me to do. I joined the military. I thought, fuck him. Fuck him and his last hope for a dynasty or legacy or whatever. By the time he pulled me out of it, he was long retired. There’s no company to run now. Just this house and all his investments. He made it about as convoluted for me to get rid of as he could so I wouldn’t just donate it all in a fit of rage before I came back to myself. I’m never coming back, for the record.”
“What are you going to do? Sell all of this and give the money away and just go back to being Special Forces?”
“Nah.” There’s no emotion on his face. He’s so good at hiding it. I know he has to feel something. Jace was never like this when he came home. But maybe Rick always was, even before he joined up. It sounded like his childhood was horrible, and all the years after weren’t very good either. He probably never knew any real family or friendships until he found the military. “I’m done with that.”
I feel like I’ve just pressed the softest spot of my chest to the flame on a stove. I can’t imagine a man who doesn’t care about his family. Not Patrick’s parents or a little kid who so badly needed someone to love him. Maybe it was the loss that crippled him. Maybe he just couldn’t deal with it. My family is so close, but we’ve all needed time and space after Jace passed. Regardless, we still care. We still love. We are all just hurting. I feel a tremendous amount of guilt thinking about Jace’s mom. I haven’t called or texted her in a month, and I used to do it far more regularly. She was a part of my life before. Not the way my parents are, but I would often see her when Jace was home, and even when he wasn’t. We’d sometimes have breakfast or lunch together, and she often texted, even if it was just silly photos or a how’s your day going message.
I face Rick with as much courage as I can. I don’t want to give him pity. Even Jace would have hated that. Grown men don’t like being looked at like they’re broken, or they need some taking care of. Rick doesn’t need to be mended. He needs…he needs what Jace asked me to do. He needs some looking after. Maybe that means being a friend right now. He’s telling me this stuff, and I imagine not many people get the insider look at his life.