Worth the Risk(102)

“In fact . . . in fact, Dad, I don’t think I deserve the position at Haute.”

What am I doing?

He snaps his head up, stunned. “You what?”

“I, uh, I took a lot of credit that wasn’t mine to take. Your editor-in-chief of Modern Family, Rissa Patel is the one who helped me a lot.”

Did I really just say that?

“So, you didn’t do the work then?” Confusion etches in the lines of his face.

“No, I did. I did all the work . . . but I think someone else is more deserving of the position than I am. I think with her background and originality, she’d be a better fit.”

“I’m not following you, Sid.”

Fight for him.

“I want to stay in Sunnyville. I want to work on Modern Family. If Rissa wants the position at Haute—only if she wants it—then I would love a shot at her job at the magazine.”

“You’re telling me you want to stay in Sunnyville?”

I want to prove to him that he is what I want.

“Yes.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose as he tries to process what I’m telling him. That his daughter wants to leave her beloved city and stay in the suburbs. Willingly. The same place she stomped her feet at when she was told she had to go there.

“May I ask why?”

Because he’s worth the risk.

“Because I learned a lot about myself when I worked there, and I think there’s a lot more for me to improve.”

“I see.”

And because I like the woman Grayson makes me want to be when I’m with him.





Me: Text me when you get to town. We need to talk.



I hit send and then realize what a dick I sound like, but I can’t take it back.

Fuck. Can I do anything right?

All I have to do is tell her that she’s my choice. That I choose her.

It’s only been seven days, and I’m going fucking crazy without her. Seven days of waking up and repeating the steps without any color in my life.

I scrub a hand over my face as I stare at the screen and wait for a response. Any response. Something to let me know that she knows that her leaving was a mistake. Something to let me know she’ll be at the party tonight and that this—she and I—is somehow still on her mind. Is something she still wants.

Only, she doesn’t respond.

She doesn’t text back.

I end up sitting with my phone in my hand while Luke plays on the PS4, and I try to figure out how to fix something I broke.

How to prove to her that it won’t happen again.




“Dad! Someone’s at the door!”

“Who is it?” I ask as I jog down the stairs, less than thrilled at the high school and its never-ending fundraisers these days. We’ve already had two teenagers today selling mixed bags (whatever those are) and candy.

“Some old guy,” Luke says, and I stop in my tracks.

“That’s not nice.” The reprimand is instantaneous, but fear flickers through me just as quickly.

It’s the attention from the contest. He’s come back as a representative for Claire. He wants to see Luke.

“Dad? You okay?” Luke’s face is a mask of confusion as he stares at me.

“Yeah. I’m fine. I need you to go upstairs and play for a minute.”

“Dad?” Brown eyes narrow and question.

“Just do what I say,” I grit out and jab my finger to the stairs.

Feelings hurt, Luke eyes me again and trudges toward the stairs as every part of me wars against opening the door. It’s finally happening.

They finally came back for him.

My pulse rages in my ears.

Over my dead body.

Once Luke clears the landing so I can’t see him, I take a deep breath and steel myself for what I’ve always known I’d have to face someday, despite everyone telling me it would never happen.

Fuck you, Claire.

I yank open the door.

“What do you . . .” My words fade as I finish with a weak, “want?”

It isn’t Claire’s dad standing on my porch. Far fucking from it. It takes a second for that to register and then another for it to hit. The resemblance is there. He may have silver hair at his temples and a hulking figure that makes the porch seem tiny, but his eyes are brown and the same almond shape as Sidney’s.

Relief flickers momentarily and then falls flat as memories come back. Claire’s dad at the door. His threatening words. His condescending voice. The way he wouldn’t even look at his own goddamn grandson.

“Can I help you?”

Why are you here?

He’s going to ask me to leave Sidney alone.

He’s going to tell me to go to hell.

“Grayson Malone?”

His voice. Aristocracy lilts in his tone, and I square my shoulders.

“Can I help you?” I repeat. We stare at each other. Measure each other. Judge.

“Frank Thorton. Nice to meet you.”

I stare at the hand he extends and hear my father say, “Never look a gift horse in the mouth.” Yet, all I want to do is look. All I want to do is stare.

All I want to do is question.

Reluctantly, I shake his hand, leery and cautious as I wait for whatever shoe might drop.