Page 75 of My Grape Crush
“And your father felt no responsibility or remorse?” I ask.
A muscle works around Sawyer's mouth. “Dad was a special breed.”
“Was?” My heart does this funny flip-flop. “Isn't he alive?"
“Technically, yes,” Sawyer corrects. “He had a stroke a few months ago. The right side of his face became paralyzed, so I took over the company, the day-to-day. That was basically death for him.”
If you’ve followed Rhys as long as I have, you know he touches on many topics. His IQ never goes to waste. But there is one glaring issue he strategically avoids.
“Rhys never talks about your family.”
Sawyer takes another pull of coffee. In the dirty light, he looks like a softer version of himself. Less like a warden in San Quentin.
“If you never talk about it, it doesn't exist, right?” he says with a mirthless laugh. “You can gloss over your demons and repackage yourself as Mr. Fucking Perfect Icon.”
His tone suggests—not so subtly—that he is jealous of Rhys, that his brother found his way on his own terms despite the odds. Maybe the sacrifices Sawyer has made relate to his own dreams.
“Does Rhys plan to visit your dad while he's here?”
Sawyer’s azure eyes bore a hole into mine. “You tell me. I carved out the weekends in his contract so he could get his ass to Vancouver. So far, not a priority. Typical of our prodigal brother.” He leans across the table and has the nerve to ask, “Is that the kind of guy you want to hitch your wagon to?”
I can read it in his expression:A screwed-up slacker like Rhys will drive you to tears sooner rather than later.
My phone vibrates in my purse, and I hold my breath, scanning the two messages from Rhys.
RT: Where r u?
RT: Can we talk this out? Please.
I feel Sawyer’s eyes on me like he knows who’s texting, and his innate bossiness will prevent me from replying.I should reply. I know that death spiral feeling when texts go unanswered. A different part of my brain wants to take over, but I refuse to let it.
I’m not ready yet, although Rhys is right. We do need to talk it out. Because where is his safe space without family? How much Blue Mountain coffee can he drink to mask the pain? And if he’s kept this hidden for so long, it has to fester like a lesion on his soul.
Chapter Twenty-Four
RHYS
Haveyou ever prayed to God asking for a sign that you’ve done the right thing? I did that once. Buried deep in row forty-three on a British Airways flight barreling to London, my fifteen-year-old heart had no clue what the fuck I’d just done. Flipped the bird to my family, escaping with a knapsack and a prayer that everything would work out.
I landed in drizzle and misery.
Struggled mightily those first few months on the road. Bounced from shitty hostels to shabby couches to filthy floors. Sucked it up and scrounged for grim, under-the-table jobs with meager pay to stay afloat. I patched together a small network of stragglers like me, who hung around until my money ran out.
I tried to make real friends.
A hard task for an introvert.
No surprise that my phone became my best friend.
Instagram was emerging back then, and it felt less lame than Facebook. The only subject I liked in high school was history, so I decided that would be my schtick. I’d share photos of epic battle locations and famous monuments and remind my generation that their precious snowflake lives owe a debt to those who came before them.
That’s how it all started.
By the time videos became all the rage, I had a decent following, and my numbers exploded once my face became the primary focus. I never slowed my roll, and I became this thing—an influencer. JC, the wise soul he is, was all over me to capitalize on my pretty boy looks.
Tap the market, little buddy.
Sawyer got me set up. He knew what he was doing, I’ll give him that much. We lasted an entire three months with him as my rep before it got ugly, and he swapped out for Bettina.
