It’s four-thirty AM in New York, but I figure the boys might be jet lagged. It’s not like Seb and Jack ever sleep, anyway. Someone must be awake. I need someone to be awake. I can’t do this by myself.
I hold my breath as the phone rings. It rings, and rings, and rings, and finally disconnects. More tears slip down my face. I end the call and try Cyrus. Then Jack. Nothing. By this time, I’m openly sobbing. I try Seb one last time, this time letting the call run over to the answering machine. When the automated voice tells me to leave a message, I open my mouth, but all the words dry up in my throat. It hurts too much to even say out loud.
“Um, hi,” I say eventually. “Sorry to call you in the middle of the night. I know you guys are busy. When you can, can you please call me back? Um, thanks.” I take a deep breath. “I just really need—”
The call cuts off. I swallow hard, lowering the phone shakily back into my lap. Rain crashes against the car windows, blowing wildly outside, and I curl up in the driver’s seat, running my hands over my face.
Realistically, I know they haven’t abandoned me. I know they’re just sleeping. But sitting out here, in the rain, with no one answering my calls—I feel just as alone as I did, each time my foster parents drove me back to the care home. I feel just as unwanted.
Swallowing down a sob, I click on Benny’s contact. He probably won’t be awake yet, but he will be in a few hours. I can still message him. I stab the button, opening up our text thread, and my mother’s address shines up at me from the screen. I stare at it, my mouth drying. The doctor’s voice echoes through my head.
The largest risk factor is genetic. Did any of the women in your family go through menopause in their twenties?
I know I told the guys that I would wait for them to come back before contacting my birth family. But they won’t be back for a week, and I suddenly don’t know if I can wait that long.
I don’t have anybody who loves me right now. No mum. No sister. No boyfriend. At the end of the day, the guys are just my employers. Friends with benefits. There’s nothing tying us together. I need someone wholovesme. Unconditionally. Someone who I know won’t leave me.
I take a deep, gulping breath. What’s wrong with me? How can life be this unfair? It’s like the universe is laughing at me. First, my own parents didn’t want me. My grandparents handed me over into care. Countless foster families tried me out and decided they wouldn’t keep me. My whole life, I’ve been completely alone. I’ve had no one.
What did I do wrong? Why am I not allowed to have a family? Everybody else has one; why can’t I?
I don’t have anyone. Anyone at all. For fuck’s sake, I just needone person. Someonewho cares that my heart has just broken.
I think for a long, long time, weighing up my options. Then I start the car, and settle in for the long drive down to Cornwall.
Fifty-Nine
Cyrus
“I can’t believe you’re wearing a bloody t-shirt,” I mutter, as all four of us jog down the corridor towards the gold-plated lift. We’re on our way to our first presentation of the conference, and we’re running late. After the horrendous flight last night, we just fed Cami, settled her down, and then passed out. We woke up this morning to the sound of the hotel phone ringing with our wake-up call, half an hour before our first presentation.
Like total idiots, we assumed half an hour would be enough time to get ready. Between feeding Cami, burping her, bathing her, and changing her, we barely had enough time to get dressed ourselves. I’m fixing my cufflinks as I run, and Seb is trying to simultaneously comb through his hair with his fingers and knot his tie. Several posh-looking guests side-eye us as we pass them, our footsteps too loud in the echoing, glittering hallway.
The hotel the conference put us up in is sexy as fuck. I’ve never been in a place so fancy. Our suite is huge; three king-sized beds, a kitchen and living area, and a massive terrace that looks out over the New York skyline. The building has three separate swimming pools, and the room service is catered by a Michelin star chef. The whole hotel has been taken over for the conference, and everywhere we go, we’re passing tech billionaires in perfectly pressed suits, talking quietly about investments and sales.
Which makes Jack’s casual graphic tee look even stupider.
“I’m a game designer,” Jack points out, glancing down at Cami. She’s frowny and red-faced in her carrier, but she’s not started crying yet, which must be some kind of miracle. “Theyexpectme to turn up in a t-shirt and jeans.”
“Look at these people.” I wave at a couple walking past. The woman is decked out in louboutins and a diamond necklace. She looks stunning. “Would it kill you to put on a suit?”
“Itriedto,” he reminds me through gritted teeth, “but you said I wasn’t allowed to wear my bow tie!”
I put my hand on his shoulder as we pull up next to the lifts, panting. “So help me God,” I say quietly. “If you ever—everwear anovelty bow tieagain, I’m moving out. I refuse to be seen in public with a man who dresses like Doctor fucking Who.”
“What’s wrong with Doctor Who?”
“He’s a dorky white guy! My whole career depends on my sex appeal! You’ll ruin my brand!”
“Stop arguing,” Sebastian orders, stabbing thecall liftbutton. Cami squawks unhappily, and Jack sets down the carrier, picking her up and holding her against him. That calms her down, and she cuddles into his incredibly inappropriate t-shirt.
“It’s okay to puke on it,” I tell her in a stage whisper. “In fact, it’s encouraged.”
The lift doors open with ading, and we step inside. “Do you remember your lines?” Sebastian asks me, pressing the button for the parking lot.
I sigh. “Yes. Jesus Christ. I might be shit at reading, but I don’t actually have a five-second memory.” I’m great at public speaking. When you shake your balls onstage five days a week, you lose your self-consciousness pretty quickly. “If any one of us messes up, it won’t be me.”
We both glance at Jack. His hands are clenched by his sides, and his face is white. His lips are moving as he repeats his part of the script over and over in his head. He’s obviously scared shitless. I don’t get why he’s so nervous. I’ve played Legend of Azaran multiple times, and his work is more than good enough to speak for itself. Apparently, he’s the only one who doesn’t see how great it is.