Page 97 of The Grumpy Billionaire
It was no longer my business.
Late Thursday morning, Mom came into my room and opened the blinds, raising the light level in the room to full solar flare.
“Okay, this has gone on long enough.”
I felt the depression of her weight on the mattress as she sat beside me. The coolness of her palm covered my forehead.
“Are you sick?”
I kept my eyes closed.
“No,” I said, attempting to pull the covers up. But I was sick, and my disease was incurable.
I was in love with Reid. I loved him, and I could never have him. Every part of me ached for him, to see his face, hear his voice, feel his touch. And it would never happen.
Mom exhaled loudly. “Was this what I was like? I don’t know how you stood it for one day. Mara. Work with me here, kiddo—open your eyes.”
I begrudgingly complied. Her face was filled with tender concern.
“Sweetheart… I know things seem bad right now. But you can’t just stop living. There will be other jobs, and eventually, another guy—”
“How did you find out?”
I’d told Mom about quitting my job, but I hadn’t been able to speak of Reid’s proposal, of my refusal. I didn’t even want to think about it—thus, my attempt at sleeping twenty-four-seven.
“Sheldon called here looking for you. You were asleep so I didn’t disturb you, but he told me what happened. And that boss of yours has called non-stop, looking for some video.”
She ran her hand over my undoubtedly greasy hair. “You did the right thing, Mare-Bear. About the story,andabout Reid—look how miserable he makes you.”
Wrong. I’d donethatto myself. He’d made me happier in the past week than I’d been in years.
“I know,” I said. I rolled over to go back to sleep, back to oblivion.
Mom’s weight lifted from the bed. I heard the sound of the blinds lowering again and then her sigh.
“I’ll give you a couple more days to wallow. If I don’t see some signs of life after that, I’m draggingyouto see Dr. Weinberg.”
* * *
As it turned out, I didn’t even get that long to indulge in my pity party.
The door to my room burst open Friday morning, startling me out of sleep and into a sitting position in my bed. Mom was flying around my room, grabbing clothes out of my closet and throwing them onto my bed.
“Get up. We’ve got to go to the hospital. Dad’s had a heart attack. I’m leaving right now. Get ready as fast as you can and meet me in the emergency room.”
I lurched out of bed and ran to my bathroom, tearing off my pajamas, running a toothbrush through my mouth, and throwing my hair into a ponytail.
Though I hadn’t eaten in days, I was charged with energy—I had to get there in time—had to tell Dad I forgave him for what happened years ago. I needed to tell him how much I loved him, how much I wanted us to still have a relationship.
God, what if this was his last day to live? What if it was too late already?”
I pulled on clothes without bothering to make sure they matched. I certainly didn’t put on makeup before leaving.
Did it really matter if I looked like an unwashed zombie? My father might be dying. I broke the speed limit by, oh, thirty miles an hour or so getting to Rhode Island Hospital.
Mom was still in the ER when I ran in. She stood when she saw me. Her cheeks were streaked with mascara.
“How is he? What’s happening?” I asked between sucking breaths.
