Cross hangs his head. I watch a dry breeze ruffle his hair as he slowly shakes it. After a long moment, he looks back up at me, and I can tell he’s not going to go into any more detail.
“I paid for my silence, in a way. Last November, Hunter West, the pro poker player, had a party at his vineyard out in Napa. That night, I got upset about something.” His eyes come up to mine, then fall away. “I had a thing for my friend, West’s fiancé. She wasn’t then, but I did see her with West and I got really wasted.”
Again, there’s a silence, in which I lean forward.
“I was a dickhead to her, and then I left. I got on my bike, and some guy stopped me to ask about it. After he left I sped away, but I couldn’t steer it. It didn’t drive right.”
I nod, because now what his friend told me in the hospital, about him having enemies, makes sense.
“I had the wreck, and I was in a coma for a while. And when I woke up, I remembered the guy who asked about my bike…and where I knew him from. It was Jim Gunn, my father’s old body guard.”
I can’t breathe, much less respond, but it doesn’t matter; Cross keeps talking. “My neck was all fucked up and I couldn’t use my hand.” He swallows and when he speaks again, his voice is thick. “I found out my parents moved me, while I was out. From this rehab place in Napa, where I’m from…to this other one, in L.A. Bad place,” he exhales. “Bad track record for getting people out of comas. There was this therapy at the first place…the good place. And they didn’t have it at this other.”
He’s quiet for a minute, and I watch him flex his jaw. The whole thing… It makes my throat feel tight. I want to hug him. I want to say something comforting, or reassuring, but the easiness between us down in Mexico is nowhere to be found.
Minutes pass. He’s staring at the grass. I want to run, to scream, but instead I touch his hand and keep this painful conversation rolling. “Was it—the therapy the new place didn’t have— was it therapy that could have brought you out of the coma?”
He nods once, briefly lifting his heavy-lashed eyes to mine. “It did…right before I got shipped off. It brought me kind of out.” He rubs his lips together and seems to sink down between his broad shoulders. “I had the stroke on the transport over. I think I had a pain attack. Now, looking back on the weird memories I have…” He shakes his head. “They did a surgery there because my brain was swelling for no reason. Then I got an infection.”
I’m about to ask about the infection when he shifts a little, leaning over like he might prop his right elbow on his knee—but he stops short and rolls his shoulder again. He makes a pained face. “My parents… didn’t want to pay for the other place.”
I can see how much this hurts him. “So they sent you to a place that wasn’t good for what was wrong with you?”
His jaw pops, and again he’s looking at the grass. The fingers of his right hand play in the blades as his eyes peek up at mine. And then…just nothing. He won’t even look back up at me—and I start to see why.
“I don’t understand. Are you saying that he wanted you to…not wake up? Or that he didn’t care?”
His blue eyes latch onto mine as he shrugs. “They never visited. Ever. My father called me only one time, right after I woke up, to tell me I was back in the good rehab because my best friend, Lizzy, sold herself, right here at Love Inc. That’s how she got the money to have me moved back to a place where I would have a shot at getting better.”
His eyes glitter as he tells me this, and I want desperately to take his hand.
“Were they always this way? Your parents?”
He shrugs, looking vacant. Bleak. “Maybe. When I was a kid, I just did what I should. It went well enough. I wasn’t good in school,” he murmurs. “I wasn’t really…excellent at anything.” He takes a deep breath, reaching up to rub his hair although the movement clearly hurts his shoulder; it makes him wince. He lowers the hand back to his lap and looks at me bitterly. “My mother is a famous interior designer. My father...well.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I tried to be…likable when I was younger. As I got older, I guess the burden was too much.”
“The burden of what?”
“The burden of trying to be their son,” he tells me bitterly. “One who couldn’t finish college. One who wanted to work on motorcycles rather than go to school for business or law.” I have a flash of memory of Cross working on the bike outside the house where we took shelter that first day on the run. “Then when I found out… When I got on my dad’s computer one day and saw the e-mails about…” he swallows, “Missy King.” He shakes his head, and I understand what he’s implying.