Page 111 of Rebellious

I was tired of missing him. I was tired of loving him. But as the days drug on, and my mother forced me out of the house, I learned I loved the little sandwich shop outside my apartment and hated the dog next door who shit on the sidewalk every morning. I also learned I now hated romcoms. For someone in mourning, they were the devil.

But I endured, and eventually Mom felt comfortable leaving me to my own devices. I still thought about Bennett, though. I still slept with his dirty shirt. But I worked, securing eight new clients. Maverick, Cooper’s brother, has been sending potential clients—or favors, as he calls them—my way.

Together, we’ve been able to grow his financial business along with my agency. It’s been exciting, even though the money isn’t that great, but it will be with a few more deals.

The biggest help has been my father. Even though he was disappointed in not seeing me on the big screen, impressing the world with my crazy knowledge of sports stats, I think he was more proud about me holding my own at my first ever negotiation. He was there at the table with his scouting stats on my client. The ball club he worked with thought I would be a pushover since Theo was my father.

They thought wrong.

Of all the things I’d accomplished in school, nothing impressed my father more than me standing up and shaking hands with one of the top baseball clubs in the United States. I had struck my first deal and ensured my client a multi-million-dollar contract. Granted, my Uncle Thad was there too since I’m not officially licensed yet. But soon, that won’t be a problem. Surprisingly, Thad and my father worked together, helping me secure all the documents I needed to be a legitimate agent, operating under my own limited liability corporation.

“Come on, Von Bremen,” my father says into the phone, his voice sleepy from the late-night call. “You’re being stubborn. You know Jake isn’t worth a million-dollar deal.”

I slip down the wall, beneath the window. Jakey did exactly what I told him to do this year—kept his ass off the bench and put on fifteen pounds of muscle. He led the team with a 280 on base percentage. Basically, he’s crushed any pitching by sending that ball deep into the outfield. He was drafted by one of my father’s teams and we’re still negotiating terms.

“I respectfully disagree, Mr. Von Bremen. Your team needs a power hitter, and Jakey is your man. Now, you can tell me all day that he doesn’t have the major league hours to back it up, but he killed your Minor League. None of their pitchers could sit him down. Your team wants to lock him into a multi-year deal—this is their reality. Multi-year contracts come with multi millions. It’s as simple as that.”

Dad laughs on the other line. “Alright, Ms. Von Bremen. I see your point.”

We always call each other Mr. and Ms. Von Bremen during contract negotiations. It helps keep things from getting too personal. Although my father has no part in the financial discussions, his teams usually ask him to talk some sense into me since we’re related, and they think his scouting reports are law.

Trust me, his scouting reports are good but mine are better.

“This is a good deal for Jake.” He sighs. “He’s young and has many more years to hone his craft and shine. The money will come.”

“Mr. Von Bremen,” I twirl a few strands of hair through my fingers, hearing my father pad down the hardwood floors of my childhood home. “No disrespect, but my client and I wipe our nose with the money Atlanta is offering. The market is competitive, and I won’t recommend my client lock into a multi-year deal without incentive. He’ll do his one year and then we’ll arbitrate.” I shrug, looking longingly at the bed that doesn’t feel like mine. “It’s up to Atlanta, but fourteen million for three years is our offer. You tell your team if they send you to negotiate with me again, our price will double.”

My father barks out a laugh. “I see. I appreciate your time Ms. Von Bremen. I will relay your message.”

“You do that.”

It’s like I can see my father grinning on the other end of the line. “And, Aspen,” he says, dropping the professionalism. “I better see you on Thanksgiving. If I have to babysit your Uncle Hayes and his demons one more time, I’m going to bash my head in.”

He’s lying, but it makes me smile anyway. “I’ll be there.”

It’s the first holiday since Bennett and I have been apart. My mom sent out a group text saying that Bennett and I were supposed to bring a pie—sugar free of course. I didn’t text Bennett to coordinate. I figured I would get one and meet him there. Thanksgiving will feel different and, more than likely, awkward, but I need to get used to seeing Bennett at home. No matter what happens between us, I’ll never make him think the foundation isn’t his home. We made a promise to spare our family’s relationship. I won’t go back on that promise.

“Good,” my father says. “Now go to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you.”

My head drops to my knees, the high I felt while negotiating dissipating with every breath. Can I see Bennett again? Can I be indifferent and not latch onto him and beg for him to talk to me?

I don’t know, but I’ll guess we’ll see. “Yeah.” I exhale. “I love you too, Daddy.”

Hanging up, I sit on the floor of my bedroom. It’s not fancy, just a thousand square feet of no memories and bare walls. I prefer my office that’s four blocks away, but eventually, I have to come home and face the nothingness. It’s the harshest reality I’ve ever faced. A life without Bennett is bitter and barren.

My eyes close and I consider just sleeping on the floor. Maybe I won’t dream of his smile or that annoyed look whenever I said something inappropriate. Yeah, the floor is good. It isn’t a bed where I drifted to sleep in his arms. Floors are good for picking up the pieces of my shattered heart. Floors are good—My phone dings and my lashes flutter open, eagerly reading his text.

Bennett: Pajamas are discouraged.

I don’t know what exactly that means, but I’ll admit, it makes my sick little heart happy. How many times did I dream of Bennett naked in bed? The feeling of his skin on mine as we laid in bed this past summer is something I will never forget.

I trace over the name of his contact. It’s simple, nothing cute with hearts or emojis. Just a simple ‘Bennett.’ Because, at this point, that’s all he is to me. He’s not my BJ or even my annoying Jameson. For all I know, he’s someone else’s pain in the ass.

A knock on my window startles me upright. I stay silent, hoping that if it’s a serial killer, he’ll move onto another apartment.

“Asp.”

My heart—I’m not even sure if it’s beating.

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