Page 4 of The One
But this year, that wouldn’t be the case … because Dad was gone.
Fuck.
My fisted hands dragged across my hair, pressing hard enough that it was as if I were tugging on the strands. Right before I relaxed my fingers to grasp a palmful of hair, a set of headlights flashed across the entrance of the club, and a car pulled in. A neon sign sat in the lower corner of the windshield, advertising the name of the rideshare company.
As I walked to the car, the driver rolled down the passenger window and said, “Are you?—”
“Yes.”
I didn’t know what name he’d been about to voice. If it was mine or someone else’s.
I didn’t care.
Once I was inside and the backseat door was shut, I barked, “Drive.”
I sank into the seat as he pulled onto the road, and I held my phone in front of my face. I could send Rowan a text, letting her know I was taking off, but I wouldn’t. Ridge would tell her I wasn’t coming back. He’d remind her of what today was if she’d forgotten, like him. She would then know she wouldn’t hear from me.
And just like Pops, she’d appear at my house within the week.
In the meantime, I was craving what was waiting for me at home.
That time-out that came with a bit of silence when everything in my head was so fucking loud.
I hit the screen of my phone and pulled up Instagram—the only social media site I was on. I didn’t post. I gave zero fucks that the publicist for Cole and Spade Hotels—the high-end international hospitality chain my family and the Spades co-owned—was constantly encouraging me to share shots of our resorts that I visited.
That wasn’t me. That would never be me.
There was only one reason I even had an account.
Just like I did every few days, when I couldn’t bear the anticipation any longer, I pressed the search bar and typed the first few letters of her name. That was all it took for her account to auto-populate since she was the only name I ever searched.
There were new posts.
There almost always was every time I looked at her account.
Just as I was about to click on the most recent photo she’d shared, I happened to glance up and peek through the windshield. Hell, I needed to make sure the driver wasn’t taking me to San Francisco.
Not that it would matter. There was whiskey and weed all over the state of California. I could force a time-out wherever I landed.
But what I saw out the window made me say, “Stop.”
The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror. “Excuse me?”
“Pull over. Right now.”
“But we’re still about fifteen minutes away from your?—”
“Did you fucking hear me?” I leaned in between the front seats. “I said, stop.”
He turned on his emergency lights and swerved to the side of the road. “Listen, man, if you’re going to puke, get it out the window, or it’s going to be a two hundred?—”
I opened the door and stepped out, growling, “Don’t wait for me,” before I slammed it shut.
He thought the reason I barked at him to stop was because I had to puke. But the alcohol I’d consumed tonight was going to stay put. I wasn’t letting a single drop out.
As the driver pulled back onto the road, I walked along the sidewalk until I reached the entrance, passing through the black wrought iron gate that remained open at all hours.
I knew it was open.
