IRL: In Real Life (After Oscar, #1)(25)

She nodded. “Good. And you’re sure everything went well today? That Asshole wasn’t too much of a jerk, was he?”

I shrugged. “He’s actually not as bad as I expected him to be.”

She snorted. “That’s because he’s a psychopath, and psychopaths are especially skilled at appearing normal when they want something. Don’t fall for it.” She started coughing again, and this time it went on longer. I noticed she was out of breath afterward, her lips pale.

“Mom, where’s your oxygen?”

She waved a hand again. “In the other room. I’m fine, sweetheart. Don’t you worry about me.”

Except I knew that tone of voice. And I especially knew that phrase. She only told me not to worry about her when there was actually something to worry about. “What happened?”

“We can talk about it when you get home. You have enough on your plate right now.”

“You know I still have the log-in information to your patient portal, right?” I told her. “I can go in there and read your medical records myself, or you can tell me what’s going on.”

She hesitated, then gave a resigned sigh. “I have pneumonia again.”

The world around me froze as the bottom dropped out of my stomach. My mother had a rare autoimmune disorder that had significantly weakened her lungs. The concoction of drugs she’d been on for the last several months had been helping to keep her lungs strong, but we’d known that eventually it wouldn’t be enough. We’d just been hoping that the treatment would work long enough for some of the newer drugs in early laboratory stages to enter the clinical trial phase.

This was too early. Too fast.

“Mom—” It came out as a croak. I jumped from the bed and rushed to the closet to grab my suitcase. “I’m coming home.”

“Conor Matthew Newell, you stay right where you are. And put on some damned pants while you’re at it.”

My cheeks blazed red. I’d forgotten I was still half-naked. “Sorry,” I mumbled, quickly tugging on a pair of shorts. But I didn’t stop packing.

“I’m being serious, Conor,” she snapped, sounding stronger than she had earlier. “I don’t want you coming home right now. I have everything under control. I already have an appointment to get screened for a promising new treatment.”

I paused my packing. “When? I want to go with you.”

“Friday. I scheduled it for after you flew in because I knew you’d want to.”

“But if they can see you earlier—”

“They can’t. Not with the pneumonia.”

I opened my mouth to argue again, but she cut me off. “Listen to me. I’m going to be okay, Conor. This is just a minor setback.”

I slumped on the bed. I hated being so far away. Hated that I wasn’t there when she got the news. “I wish I were there.”

She smiled and it lit her eyes. “Me too, sweetheart. But I need you up there right now. The doctor’s been fighting with the insurance company, and so far it’s not looking good. We may have to fund this on our own, in which case we’re going to need the money from the printer patents.”

My chest tightened at the thought. I’d known how critical this deal was, but having such a visceral reminder of its importance made me anxious. I hated that she’d been put in this position—that rather than donate the patents to a nonprofit that could make the treatment available to anyone who needed it at a reasonable cost, she had to sell it to a corporation that would price the technology out of most people’s reach.

I forced a smile, not wanting her to see the strain I felt. “I know, Mom. I’ll take care of it.”

Her expression softened. “I know you will, sweetheart. You’ve always been able to excel at anything you’ve put your mind to.”

It was such a mom thing to say. Her faith in me was absolutely unshakeable. I just wished I had the same faith in myself. We talked for a few more minutes about what was going on at home, but I could sense her energy flagging. It was one of the side effects of her current meds: she tired easily. And the pneumonia certainly wasn’t helping. But she didn’t like to admit weakness.

So I yawned and told her I needed to turn in early. We said our goodbyes and I love you’s and ended the call. After hanging up I sat for a while, staring at my phone, trying to collect my emotions.

I glanced at the time. It was late. I’d been supposed to text my sexy stranger half an hour ago. I flipped to my messages, wondering if perhaps he’d reached out when he didn’t hear from me. But there was nothing. I tried not to feel disappointed, but it was difficult.

For a moment I considered putting my phone in sleep mode and going to bed. I wasn’t sure I’d be good company. But at the same time, I didn’t like the idea of being alone.

I quickly typed up a message and hit Send.

Conor: Hi. You there?





It felt lame, but I didn’t know what else to say.

Sexy Stranger: That took longer than expected. I was just about to put my phone down for the night. You can make it up to me by sending me a picture of that gorgeous cock of yours.





I wanted to. More than anything. I would have loved to have lost myself in his words and what they did to my body. It would be so much easier than thinking about what my mother just told me. But I couldn’t. I looked down at my poor flaccid penis and circled my fingers around the base of it, giving it a half-hearted tug.