IRL: In Real Life (After Oscar, #1)(50)

“I have to go,” I breathed.

Scotty reached into his pocket for a business card. “Here’s my number. Let me know how it goes?”

I slid it into my wallet before giving him another big hug. “Thank you. You have no idea how much I needed a friend today.”

As I made my way out of the park, back toward my hotel, I thought through what I needed to do. I already knew that refinancing my building wouldn’t bring in enough money for my mom’s treatment.

But selling it and both of my businesses would. And it would give her back the opportunity to say no to Wells Grange. She could keep her patents and donate them to a nonprofit the way she’d always wanted to. So the people who needed the technology the most wouldn’t have to go to the poorhouse to get it.

I sent James a text asking for more time, ignoring the texts from Trace that pinged through one after the other when I turned my phone on. I didn’t have the emotional energy for that right now.

James: What do you mean, more time?





Conor: I need to talk to my mom about this again before signing anything. It’s a big deal.





James: You’re right. It is. Take all the time you need. I’ll enjoy telling Wells to wait.





The mention of Wells made my chest tighten.

When I got back to my hotel room, I pulled out my laptop and got to work. The game shop’s brick building alone was worth almost two million dollars. I’d bought it for a steal with an inheritance from my grandmother and fixed it up myself while I was in school. Since then, Asheville’s downtown scene had only grown more popular, and now I was regularly receiving offers from entrepreneurs and investors interested in buying my building and converting it into something more hip and trendy.

The thought of selling made me feel hollow inside. I loved being part of the scene in Asheville, seeing tourists and locals wander by and decide to stop in just to browse. That was part of what made my day enjoyable. I couldn’t imagine a different life than the one I’d built around my shop.

But this wasn’t about me, I reminded myself. It was about my mom. And if I sold my building and the business, I could figure out another business to start, or hell… get a job like a real person. Stop trying to have a fun job and go for something more responsible and stable.

I called my mom to explain my plan to her. As soon as I got the basic details out, she cut me off. “Pardon my French, dear, but are you fucking crazy?”

I looked at my phone. Elizabeth Newell didn’t use the f-word. “Mom?”

“No. Stop right now. You suggesting selling your companies and that gorgeous building that you put your blood, sweat, and tears into is insane.”

Even at her weakest, the woman was feisty as hell.

“But, Mom, hear me out.”

“I will not. Go to the Grange office and sign those papers. Now.”

“Wait, let me—”

“No. You wait. And you listen to me. I did not spend decades working to improve medical techniques just to let the fruits of my labor sit in a dusty storage room. That printer can save lives, Conor. And selling it to Grange is the only way to get it out there in the world where it can do some good.”

“What about your idea for the nonprofit foundation? That man will turn around and charge unreachable prices for it,” I argued. “He’ll make it impossible for real people to afford. He’ll—”

“Then how do I get the biological materials, Conor? Hm? Because the way I see it—” She stopped and began coughing. I held my breath while she tried to catch hers. “The way I see it,” she said more slowly, “is that Grange is the one who holds Claude’s patents to the printing material. So Grange is the only one who can bring a complete solution to market. It’s up to the insurance companies to push back on the pricing. And, Conor, that would be out of my hands no matter who I sold to.”

“I thought you hated Wells Grange,” I said, ignoring how petulant I sounded.

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because when he negotiated the deal with Desona for their dynamic glucose monitoring technology, he refused to agree to the extra funding needed to adapt the technology for children.”

I couldn’t square the man my mom described with the guy who’d told me about his three-year-old niece’s penchant for wearing a pirate’s eye patch every time he saw her.

“I know, but maybe there was a reason we don’t know about…”

“Honey, the man only cares about money. About profitability. To him, it’s not about saving lives or doing good. Believe me, many business folk are ruthless like that, and you can hardly blame him. He grew up in the culture of money at whatever the cost. His own father is a Wall Street investment banker. That’s probably all That Asshole knows.”

My brain spun while my mother continued.

“Besides,” she continued, “I didn’t work my tail off all these years just for you to give up your dreams. You’re being ridiculous. Just go sign the papers and come home.”

“But Mom—”

“No buts. This is my technology and I get the final say. Got that?”

I let out a long sigh. “Fine,” I said, sounding like a moody teen.

We talked a little bit longer about how she was doing before I ended the call and texted James.