Page 8 of Loving You

Though that wasn’t entirely true. He did know that there were no chainsaw-wielding clown-bears in hisfather’s house. But the visions were very, very clear. And graphic.

“Are you okay? Do I need to call anyone?”

The fainting was from a rapid drop in his blood pressure, and there wasn’t much he could do about it. “I could use some salt.”

“Like anchovies, or…”

“Table salt will be fine.” He knew he sounded a little unkind, but stress-induced attacks never put him in the best mood. Then again, being in his father’s house did that on its own. He sat up slowly as Poppy moved away, and he managed to get his back against the chair.

The world was still a little foggy, and a spell like this meant he’d be sleeping the moment he got home. He’d been having such a good day too. He thought if he could just get through this dinner without incident, he could spend his evening catching up on paperwork. Now that was shot to hell.

He didn’t like using the wordhate, but sometimes it was the only one that came close to how he felt about his father.

He just didn’t understand why the man had to be this way.

“Here.”

Monty looked over to see Poppy holding out a delicate crystal saltshaker. He curled his fingers around it and tipped a small pile into the palm of his hand. He could feel her eyes boring into him as he turned his face away so he could lick it. He always felt a little like a farm animal when he did that.

His cheeks were flushed when he turned back to face her, which was a good thing, he supposed. At least he had blood rushing upward instead of away from his heart and brain. “Merci.”

Her lips twitched. He was pretty sure she didn’t speak any of his father’s primary languages. His father had been born and raised in Lisbon, moved to Paris to open a new law office where he met Monty’s mother—initiating his third divorce— then after she left him, he packed up and settled on the East Coast of the United States with his children in tow.

All but Monty had been adults when it happened, and Monty was forced to attend an English-speaking school where he was both loved and hated for his thick accent and his inability to understand or process slang. But he’d adapted, and at least his neurological symptoms hadn’t started presenting themselves until just before he’d finished his undergrads. And they’d started slowly—one fainting spell here, a cataplexic event there. He skated by on hope and prayer, and it wasn’t until the week before he took the bar that it got worse, and he was given his prognosis after four months of constant testing: a rare neurological condition with no real treatment or cure. No more driving for him. No more flying his own plane. No more taking risks. But at least he could still work.

He passed the bar and managed to make it all work as he started his new practice.

“Can I help you up?”

Monty shook his head, pressing his hands to the floor. He took it slow, but he was already feeling human again. “I’m going to call for a car.”

Poppy bit her lip. “I could give you a ride. I have to run an errand anyway.”

He was pretty sure she was lying, and he couldn’t help but wonder if this was some kind of ploy cooked up by his father in an attempt to win him over. But no matter how much he liked her, he wouldn’t call her mom.

She wasn’t his mother. No one in his life deserved that title, and he was fine with it.

The most attentive parent he’d ever had was his grandfather, but he was seven years gone, and the only thing Monty had left from him was his inheritance in the bank, gaining interest because it hurt too much to touch it, and his plane, which he couldn’t fly now because his brain had decided to be unkind and take away the one thing he and his grandfather had loved doing together.

He had Kylen, of course, the adorable, unavailable pilot who was willing to take him in the air anytime he felt like visiting his grandfather’s grave. But it wasn’t the same. Being reliant on someone for those little things—those little, personal things that no one else gave a shit about—that’s what got him right in the gut.

But he supposed he could take Poppy up on her offer. She was probably trying to assuage her guilt for her husband’s behavior, and Monty didn’t really want to punish her. He was pretty sure she hadn’t realized what she was getting herself into when she started dating him. And Monty wasn’t going to try and pretend he understood why a woman in her twenties would want a man three times her age.

Well, there was the obvious answer—and it wasn’t like Monty was here to judge any reason for a person to make that choice. But she was kind. Genuinely kind. And Rod was not.

“Sorry, never mind. I’ll just?—”

“I’d love a ride. Thank you.” He pushed to his feet and stared down at his mostly empty plate. It was roast duck and toasted baguette smothered in foie gras with a handful of runner beans. A pretentious sort of lunch when all he’dreally wanted was to curl up with a pizza, do paperwork, then watch a true crime documentary until he passed out.

Poppy smiled brightly, relieved. “Yeah? Cool. Okay, let me grab my bag and let Roddy know.”

He tried to hide his wince.Roddy. Bile rose in the back of his throat as he followed her into the foyer, where he’d dropped his keys on the little curio cabinet that he was pretty sure Poppy had brought in. It was definitely not to his father’s tastes, but over the years, he’d let his girlfriends and fiancées decorate however they wanted.

He’d once told Monty it was the only way to make a relationship last. “You can throw away things as quickly as you throw away a woman.”

Rod had been nothing but a beacon of how not to treat people, but he was also the reason Monty had been terrified to date. He’d been raised by this man, and there was a small, ugly voice in his head that said if he let himself get comfortable, he’d become just like his father. And that was something he couldn’t live with, so he accepted short dates and random hookups. It would have to be enough.

No matter how much he wanted to be loved. No matter how much he wanted more.

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