Don’t call me that
The law has finally caught up to me.
Or rather, the lawyer. I’ve been dodging his calls since September. More than three months and he still hasn’t gotten the hint. In fact, he’s only accelerated his get-in-touch-with-Ryder campaign. Emailed multiple times this week, left two more voice messages, and I’ve finally realized if I don’t suck it up and rip the Band-Aid off, I’m going to be running from this guy for the rest of my life.
It’s Wednesday evening and I’m on my way to the dorms to see Gigi. We made plans for dinner and a movie. When I pull into the parking lot, I stay in the Jeep and call Peter Greene back without listening to the message he just left.
“Peter Greene,” comes his brisk greeting. “Mr. Greene. It’s Ryder.”
“Finally.” He sounds a bit annoyed. “I was beginning to think you pulled a disappearing act and changed your name.”
God, the dream.
“Sorry for not returning your calls sooner, but…” I trail off, then opt for brutal honesty. “I didn’t want to.”
That gets me a rueful chuckle. “Look, trust me, I understand. I really do, kid. But no matter how badly you want to avoid this, it doesn’t change the fact your father is up for parole.”
“Yeah, explain that one to me again,” I mutter, trying to tamp down my anger.
But he hears it in my voice. “I get it,” Greene says. “I’d be pissed too. But I wasn’t the original prosecutor on the case, and I didn’t make that plea deal. But it was made, and he qualifies for the hearing, provided he’s exhibiting good behavior. And according to reports from the penitentiary, he is. He has a job. He’s involved in the prison church.”
“Good for him,” I mutter sarcastically. “Just be real with me right now— is there a chance he gets out?”
“A very slim one. So, no, I wouldn’t worry too hard about it. But…a spoken statement from you at the hearing will go a long way in ensuring that slim chance becomes zero.”
“No.” My tone is emphatic. Cold. “Ryder.”
“No. If you want a written statement, I’ll send you that. But I’m not going in person. I don’t want to see him—ever. Got it?”
“And you’d be willing to take the risk he gets out?”
“I don’t give a shit if he’s in or if he’s out or wherever the hell he is. He doesn’t exist to me. You got it? Don’t ask me again,” I warn.
“Luke—”
“Don’t call me that.”
This isn’t the first time I’ve had to correct him. Greene and I met when I was thirteen, while Dad’s various appeals were making their way through the courts. Luckily, the door was effectively slammed on each one of them. And I truly didn’t foresee we’d be talking about parole so soon.
“Sorry, Ryder. I know this is difficult, but I urge you to reconsider.” “Not interested.”
Then I hang up.
I take a breath. Fuck. I’m keyed up now. Wired. I didn’t expect to talk to Greene tonight, and I gather my composure as I walk toward Hartford House. I tell the security guard I’m there for Gigi, and he buzzes me into the lobby, where I sign in and then head for the stairs. The dorm is only three floors and has no elevators.
Gigi greets me with a smile. I try to return it, but inside, I’m seething.
The nerve of this asshole. Greene knows exactly what’s going to happen if he puts me in the same room as my dad. I had to attend one of his appeal hearings when I was twelve, then again when I was fourteen, and both times I wanted to kill him. Death is too good for him, though.
“Are you okay?” Gigi asks as I follow her into the kitchen. Whatever she’s cooking smells good, but I’ve lost all my appetite.
“Yeah, fine,” I lie.
She puts her arms around me and I’m not feeling it at all. I realize too late that I should have simply turned the Jeep around and gone home. But I’m here, so I put on the best face that I can, because Gigi doesn’t deserve anything less.
While we wait for dinner to be ready, we sit on the couch, and she surfs the various streaming sites for a movie to watch. I absently nod at all her suggestions. My head is elsewhere and she knows it.
“All right. What’s going on?” she demands. I shrug. “Nothing.”
“You’re lying. Did something happen at practice this morning? Trouble in one of your classes?”
“No, none of that.” “Then what?”
Another shrug. “Look, if it’s all the same, I’d rather not talk about it.” There’s a beat.
“Okay, whatever you want.” She hops off the couch. “Let me check on the lasagna.”
I get up too. “No, you know what? I should go.” She blinks in surprise. “What?”
I’m already pulling my jacket off the hook in the hall. “I’m sorry, G. I’m really not feeling it.”
Concern fills her eyes. “Luke.” “Don’t call me that,” I snap.
My tone is so harsh she actually flinches, which brings a twinge of remorse.
“Sorry,” I mutter, avoiding her worried gaze. “Just…don’t call me that.”
“It’s your name,” she says softly.
“Yeah, well, fuck that. I told you before not to use it.”
“Okay,” she says in a careful tone. “Do you want to explain why?” Frustration claws its way up my throat. “Now I owe you explanations?” Gigi frowns at me. “You don’t have to be an asshole about it.”
“I’m sorry.” I rake both hands through my hair and avert my eyes. I can’t stand the way she’s peering at me right now. Trying to burrow her way into my mind. “I told you, I’m not feeling this tonight.”
“Then you shouldn’t have fucking come.” Now she’s angry. “You could have just sat in your own house and sulked and left me the hell out of it.”
I clench my teeth, my gaze returning to her.
“But you did come, so why don’t you take this opportunity to behave like an adult and tell me what’s wrong?”
There’s a part of me that wants to do that. Just sit back down and confess everything that’s weighing on me. But then I envision her face, her pity, and all the other questions she’ll inevitably have, and the words refuse to come out.
After a long beat, Gigi huffs out a breath.
“Forget it. Just go. Even if you wanted to stay and talk, now I’m not in the mood to hang out with you. So get out.”
