Page 103 of To Go
“What do you mean, James?” Mrs. Finlay asks tersely, shifting from one foot to the other in the cold. I’m only judging her a little for wearing stilettos in the snow.
“It means I’m done. I’m done trying to force myself to be the son you want, done feeling worthless because I don’t jump at your every command. I’m done trying to mend things between you and Nessa. I’m done pretending I want to take over the family company. I’m done trying to force you to love us. I don’tneed the money that badly. Keep it.” A slow, melancholy grin spreads on his face. He knows he has her in checkmate. There’s nothing she can do.
Her face twists into a sneer. “We will discuss this later,” she says through her teeth.
“No, we won’t. This is not up for debate. I’m sorry this is the way it has to be, Mom. I’m sorry we couldn’t change things, try to understand each other. But I’m finished feeling like your puppet instead of your son.” He stays silent for a moment, waiting for her to answer. She doesn’t. “Why is nothing we do enough for you? Why can’t you just love us?”
“James…” Mrs. Finlay trails off, her face betraying her uncertainty for the first time.
“If you’re finished, it’s cold as balls out here.” He turns on his heel without waiting for an answer, walking inside, knowing I’ll follow him.
I sprint up the stairs behind him, not wanting to spend an extra moment with this she-devil.
Shoot, I should probably move after that. She owns the building. I go to press my hand to my face, only to remember the envelope is still stuck in my grip. I enter the apartment as James is taking off his outerwear. Presumptuous if you ask me, but he usually doesn’t. He doesn’t seem to be in the mood to follow orders.
When he hears me enter, he spins around to face me, and only then can I see how much his hands are trembling, the indents on his lip where he’s been chewing on it. Before I can register what’s happening, James sweeps me up into an all encompassing hug.
It’s an effort not to sob. I’ve missed this, being in his arms, surrounded by his scent, the feeling of safety.
“I’m sorry,” he says, the vibration rattling through my ears.
“I know, stud.” I bury my face in his broad, chiseled chest. “I’m so sorry you gave that all up. That’s a lot of money.” He’s already shaking his head.
“Like you said, I wouldn’t want to touch blood money anyway.” He sighs heavily. He’s now out of a job and an inheritance, how is he keeping it together? “What did she give you?” he asks, nodding at the envelope still clutched in my hand.
“Money? I think?” I pull away so I can rip open the top of the envelope.
The first thing I pull out is a credit card statement. And then another.Threecredit card statements. One for each card my dad had me put my name and pristine credit score on.
All of them say “PAID IN FULL.” I gasp. I knew she said she was going to do it, but I didn’t fully believe her. I am now looking at indisputable proof that I’m free. It’s like a physical weight being lifted off my chest, my lungs fully expanding for the first time in years. Tears clog my throat. It’s really done?
“Stella, there’s something else in there,” James says softly. I look in again and pull out a small piece of paper.
A certified cheque. In the same amount we would have gotten for workers comp and insurance.It’s an obscene amount, my eyes bug out, and I have a moment of doubt about the decimal being in the right place before it all sinks in.
Paying off the mountain of debt, and an official bank cheque. Two things she can’t take away from me. Even if she changes her mind and decides that I didn’t hold up my end of the deal, which truthfully, I didn’t, she can’t go back on this. It’s really over.
A wave of grief washes over me. Every burden that had been tying me to my parents, their loss, the pain, all the strength I had to muster to get through it pours over me at once. I’m sitting on the couch in James’ lap before I realize I’ve moved. Or, that he’s carried me, I guess.
“It’s over,” I whisper.
“It is,” he says into my hair, holding me tight to him, like a balloon that might fly away at any moment.
“It’s over. It’s over,” I repeat quietly until exhaustion takes me.
I wake to the smell of bacon and eggs in the kitchen. Someone is puttering around in there. I roll over in my bed and come face to, well, ass, with James who is….
Making me breakfast?
I don’t remember passing out, likely from the excitement, emotional overload, and overwhelming mental fatigue this week has brought. I struggle to sit up, rubbing my face with a yawn.
“Morning, Stella,” James says, plating up some food and walking over with it. “How are you?”
“A bit… out of sorts. But good? I think?” I reply, taking the offered food and wolfing it down.
“I’m glad. I know it didn’t turn out that way, but I came here hoping we could talk?” His voice is lighter than normal, which is surprising given the showdown I witnessed outside.
“Did you stay the night?” I ask, unsure of how else he’d still be here.
