She snatches the cigarette out of my hand and wraps her wrinkled lips around it, taking a long drag, blowing the smoke in my face. I hold my breath and wait for the cloud to dissipate. I don't cough. I don't wave it away because showing weakness to her will be the last thing I ever do. I know I shouldn't dislike my mom so much, but she has become a different person since Dad's death. She’s become a person I don't like. She refuses to go to rehab or therapy, which makes it difficult to help her. She has to want to be improved, and I can't do that when she fights me every step of the way.
I’m thinking about putting her in a facility, because I can’t take care of her. I try, but I’m not doing a great job. I can’t watch her twenty-four-seven. I have too much to do, and she could end up hurting herself, or worse, killing herself.
“Fine. But I want my vodka chilled.”
I stick my hands in my pockets and rock on the heel of my shoes. “I’ll let Frankford know.”
She curls her lip at me and blows another cloud of smoke in my face before she turns and leaves. My mom stumbles to the elevator I had installed, pressing the button to the third floor. She leans against the wall, puffing her still-lit cigarette. The orange embers glow every time she inhales, causing the stick to become shorter and shorter until eventually, she throws it on the ground. It rolls to my feet, leaving a trail of ash in its wake. She gives me a death glare before the elevator dings. The doors slide open, and she backs in, shaking her head like I'm some failure.
I close the door to my office and lean against the wood that keeps everyone out. Composing myself, I pull on the sleeves of my coat and walk over to my dad's old leather chair. My shoes crunch on the glass from the picture frame. I pause for a moment but keep taking steps toward the big oak desk. This used to be his office, and I haven't changed a thing. The old lamp on the side of the table doesn’t work. I remember him taking it apart, fixing the wires, replacing the bulbs, but no matter what, it wouldn't shine a light. But I haven't moved it. He said even though it didn't work, it gives the old, dark room life.
The bookshelves are riddled with old classics like Oliver Twist and A Tale of Two Cities. They aren’t in any particular order. Wherever my dad would place a book became its home for the time being, until he grabbed it again and set it somewhere else on the shelf. There is an old Picasso painting on the right side of the wall that mirrors the bookcase. I still wonder if it is an original like my dad claimed it was.
A small tray sits on a wooden stand under the painting, holding two scotch glasses and the decanter he used to put his bourbon in. It sits empty now because of Mom, but I remember after a long day, he would pour himself a glass, popping his lips when the bourbon would hit his tongue.
“Where’s my vodka!” my mom’s voice echoes from the intercom speaker.
I groan, wanting to bang my head against the desk waiting for her to pass out. I press the intercom button to her room. “He will be up in a few minutes.” I don’t wait for her reply and press the button for Frankford. He is our butler and driver. He is a good friend, too. My mom tries to fire him because he has been around since before I was born, and he reminds her of the times she had with my dad. I always make sure to let him know he is never fired, and he is forever a part of this family, whether she likes it or not.
“Frankford?” I lift my hand off the button to see if he says anything back.
“Hi there, Mr. Stone. How can I help you?” his old voice wobbles and cracks from age. He is just as old as my mom. In his case, he is a young sixty-five. His soul is still that of a twenty-five-year-old. My mom, well, she is a bitter old lady.
“Can you bring my mom a glass of ‘vodka’?” I emphasize the word, so he understands that he needs to bring her water. Frankford only puts a few drops of vodka in the cup and fills the rest up with water. If my mom can’t taste the alcohol, she refuses to drink it, so we work around her games, trying to beat her at it.
Frankford sighs at the other end of the line. “I see. Of course, Mr. Stone. I’ll do that now.”
“Thank you, Frankford. If she gives you any issues, please let me know.”
“Of course, Mr. Stone.”
I lift my finger off the button and pick up my cigar. I light a match, puffing so the tobacco will burn. The smoke invades my lungs, and my shoulders sag when relief washes over me. I don't always indulge in a cigar, but tonight seems like a good night. Between my mother, the diner, my sister, and the new project that breaks ground tomorrow, I need to feel in control of myself again. I can feel myself slipping, losing the edge that makes me Logan Stone. I can't have that.
Planting my feet on the ground, I spin the leather chair and look out the window taking in miles and miles of Sequoia trees. They are beautiful. When my dad built the Stone Estate, he made sure it overlooked everything, but still made sure not to build on the federally-protected property. That would have been a big no-no.
In the distance, I can see the lights of San Francisco twinkling like stars. Soon, my brand new luxury resort will be a part of the city's galaxy. I can't wait. But I’m not looking forward to dealing with the tree huggers that will be there, protesting about cutting down the enormous chunks of wood. Don't people understand that is how jobs are created? I am helping the community, not destroying it.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter to myself, taking one last drag of the Cuban tobacco.
I put out my cigar, placing it back onto the ashtray. I set my palms on the windowsill and remember the time everything was easier. Life was much simpler when my dad was alive. I know I have always had it more comfortable than others because of money, but my father wasn't one of those rich assholes. He worked hard for his billions, and I like to think I took after him. I throw myself into work because I don't want to deal with anything else. I don't want to deal with the stress and heartbreak of my mother, and I don't want to think about my sister ruining her life. I don't know how to handle emotions, so I do what I do best. I put them aside.
I’ve learned over the last few years that emotions destroy you, and I refuse to become victim to something that can easily be avoided at all costs.
Whitley
I want to roll my eyes at my mom checking me over for any scrapes or bruises, like the reason I haven't been here is because I'm injured. No, the reason I haven't been here because of this—the fuss.
"Oh, Whitley, you need to eat more. Oh, Whitley, it looks like you haven't slept a wink. Are you taking your vitamins? Are you having safe sex?"
My father chimes in. "I don't want to hear that nonsense. My baby girl isn't having sex."
And like always, I sit here, listening to my parents bicker about me like I’m not even here. I push my mashed potatoes around on my plate, suddenly not hungry.
“Are you well, dear? Do you have a fever? Let me see.” My mom stands, putting her napkin on the table as she scoots the chair back.
“Mom, no. I’m fine. Really. I’m just not hungry.”
She waves my words away like an annoying fly buzzing around her head. “Nonsense. You love my cooking. Come here, let me feel your forehead.”
“No, Mom. Ugh, come on. I’m fine,” I try to argue, but my dad chimes in again.
“Whitley, stop fighting your mother. Let her check you for a fever.”
I groan, throwing my fork against the plate like some pubescent teen. I hate being the baby of the family, because I’m always treated as such. My mother’s arctic hands touch my forehead, making me jump. It’s something I should be used to, but I’m never ready to feel how cold her hands are.
I glance over at my brother Anthony, who smiles and shoots me a wink while he stuffs his mouth with the green beans Mom picked from the garden. I narrow my eyes and stick my tongue out at him in return.
“I saw that, Whitley. Behave,” my father says, never taking his eyes off the newspaper.
It always perplexes me that he sees everything without actually seeing. How does he do that?
“I didn’t do anything,” I mutter.
“Dude, you so did. You stuck your tongue out at Anthony,” my other brother, Kyle, comments in his ‘I’m so cool, I’m a surfer’ voice.
I kick him underneath the table, warning him to shut his mouth.
“Ow. Dude, what was that for?” Kyle rubs his shin under the table.
"Oh, like that hurt."
“It did.”
“Pah-lease. You're fine. And you'll be able to ‘shred the waves’ with no problem, dude."
My mom slaps my shoulder—the warning of all warnings. If I didn't shut my mouth, I'd be going to my room, which is still the same from when I left their house at eighteen.
“She doesn’t have a fever, but gosh−golly, you have an attitude tonight.”
Defending myself at this point is useless. “Sorry, Mom.”
Mom stabs her potatoes with her fork. “Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to your brothers.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“Yeah, Whit. Apologize. We’re listening,” Anthony smirks, wiping his mouth with his napkin.
Deep breaths in, Whitley.
I clench my teeth together, pick my fork back up, and swirl my potatoes around. “I’m sorry I was so rude.”
Mom smiles, clapping her hands like I did something that won't send me to hell. "Yay. I'm glad we are on the right page again. Tell me, Whit, how are work and school? Catch us up. I want to hear how all my babies are doing." My mom grabs Anthony's hand, and he mimics the face she is making at him, like an adult cooing at a baby.
I have to hold back tears to remember what happened a few days ago. I still find it hard to believe that Tops is dying of cancer and that—that man in the booth is going to buy him out like the diner doesn’t even matter.
My mom gasps when she sees my bottom lip trembling. “Oh, dear. What’s wrong, Whit?”
“What’s going on, Whit? Did a guy hurt you? What’s his name? Where’s he live? What’s he do?” Anthony leans forward, placing his elbows on the table.
“Dude,” Kyle said, leaning back in his chair and stares at me with his wide eyes. I always thought my brother smoked pot, but he doesn’t. He’s just naturally chill.
My father folds the paper, placing it on the table next to his plate. He proceeds to take his glasses off and sets them in his front pocket. "Talk to us. We are here for you. What's going on?"
I cover my face with my hands, trying my hide my tears, but they flow out like a dam breaking. "Tops is selling the diner to this pompous ass that doesn't give a crap about it because —"
“What is it?” asks my dad impatiently.
“Kenneth, let her talk,” scolds my mom.
I sniffle, wiping my nose on my napkin. "He has lung cancer, and it's now in his liver. He needs treatment, and it's expensive. He can't afford it, so he is selling the diner, to some rich guy named Logan who can't be older than Anthony."
Anthony sits up straight, and a knowing look passes across his face. "You have to be talking about Logan Stone. He’s the only billionaire my age. He graduated when I did. You have to remember him, Whit. He’s my friend."
I shake my head. “How could you be friends with someone like that?”
“You don’t even know him, Whit. You shouldn’t—”
My chair scratches against the floor as I stand. “That’s not the point. You are friends with the enemy! Wait a minute. Logan? The same Logan you took on Spring Break instead of me?” I am furious. This Logan guy better hope he never runs into my wrath. “And he chops down trees! You know how I feel about that! I can’t believe you would do that to me.”
My father sighs, leaning back in his chair. He is tired of how I always bring that up, but it's something important to me, just like football is to him.
"Logan is a good friend. Don't forget, he helped pay for Dad's medical expenses when Dad needed back surgery. None of us had the money."
"And you think he did that out of the kindness of his heart? You think he doesn't expect anything from you?" I yell with tears streaming down my face.
"I'm sorry Tops has cancer, Whit. I am. That place is a historic spot here, but you can't blame Logan or me for it. Logan is trying to help. He has been there just as much as any of us have. He loves it just as much as you do."
“I highly doubt that.”
Anthony runs his fingers through his hair, showing frustration. “I know you’re upset. I do, but you’re judging a book by its cover right now. You told me to call you out when you did that, so I’m doing it.”
I scoff. I can't believe he dares to bring that up to me. "I know everything I need to know. You know he belittled me at work? He spoke down to me like I'm some peasant underneath his comfortable leather shoes. He doesn't appreciate anyone but himself. You might want to remember that." I grab my coat off the hanger and zip my knee-high boots over my legs.
Anthony stands. “Come on, Whit. Don’t go like this.”
I shake my head, wrapping my gray scarf around my neck. "I need some air. I'm going to be hanging out with Dylan. I'll be back later."
I grab the doorknob with my hand and let in the crisp winter breeze. When I look out past the threshold of the door, the sun has set, and the street lamps have turned on. Dad's sprinklers have turned on for the night, watering the grass and causing the sidewalk to turn from a light grey to a dark grey. No one is outside, but the stars are shining bright, making me feel less alone. Even with my entire family behind me, I feel like a stranger to them. I've always been different from them, and being in a room, suffocated by their similarities, doesn’t allow me to breathe.
Anthony grabs my arm, stopping me from walking out into the misty evening air. “Don’t go hang out with that asshole. I don’t get a good vibe from him. He isn’t good for you.”
“What do you know about what’s good for me? None of you do. I’m so different than all of you, and at least Dylan has a few things in common with me. He cares about what I care about.”
“He cares about getting in your pants!” Anthony yells so loud, his voice carries down the street, probably alerting everyone about my pants.
I stomp down the stairs, spin, and point my finger at him. “Good. Maybe someone will finally get in my pants because you won’t be there to stop them! Gosh. You’re such a cockblock!”
My mom gasps and pure horror is written on her face. Kyle is laughing, and my dad is holding in a chuckle by coughing to cover it up. Anthony, on the other hand, is fuming. "Because none of those twerps deserve you."
I taunt him. “For all you know, I’ve been spreading my legs for the entire city. How would you know?” I cross my arms. Ha! I’ve won.
“Don’t even joke like that, Whit. I know a lot of people. I’d know. And if I ever find out, the guy is dead.”
"I am twenty-two years old!” I shout. “I’m an adult! You can't protect me forever. How is this fair? I was talking about what was wrong with me today. How my life is going to change, and of course you had to go and make it about you being the ‘protective big brother.’ Forget it. I'm not coming back. I'll have Dylan take me home." I turn, wrapping my arms around my waist as I pass the solar lights that line the sidewalk.
“Give her space, Anthony. You have to stop hovering. You’re worse than me,” I heard my dad say in the background, probably stopping Anthony from getting me.
I turn left, walking toward Dylan's house. He still lives with his parents, but he’s saving for a home, working, and going to grad school, so it’s not like he’s mooching off them. I glance around, to see if anyone is staring at me from overhearing the argument, but the coast is clear. I take a deep breath, tilting my head toward the sky. I don't bother to watch where I'm walking. I keep staring at the sky, watching the stars move as I pass. I love doing this. I feel like I'm in my galaxy star-globe.
“Whoa.” I shake my head when I start to get dizzy and sidestep an elderly lady just in time before mowing her over. “Sorry! Gosh. I’m so sorry!”
“It’s okay, dear,” she says in her old shaken voice.
I’ve known Dylan for ten years now, and Anthony has no idea what he is talking about. Dylan has been nothing but nice to me.
“Whit? What are you doing? I was just about to come over to your house.” Dylan says as he trots down the steps of his house.
I look up to see I’ve been standing in front of his house, losing myself to the thoughts swirling around in my head. “Hey! Sorry, I had to get out of there. It’s been a rough night.”
He cringes, looping his arm in mine as we continued walking to his car. “Tell me all about it.” He opens the car door for me and slides over the hood of the car.
I giggle for the first time tonight. That is one thing I can always count on him for. He always brings a smile to my face. “You love sliding over the hood. That hasn’t changed since I’ve met you.”
“It makes me feel like James Bond.” His seatbelt clicks, and he turns on his car. “So, what happened?” Dylan pats my hand before putting the car in drive. We lurch forward and drive down the road.
We pass my house, and I want to give it the big middle finger, but I know that's rude. They’re my family. I love them, but it doesn't mean I have to like them right now.
“Some rich guy named Logan Stone is buying Tops’.”
“Whoa! Tops is selling the diner? No way.”
"He has to. He has cancer." I feel my bottom lip quiver again, and tears threaten my eyes. I'm just a rollercoaster of emotions tonight.
“Aw, Whitley. I’m sorry. I know he is like a grandfather to you.”
"He is. And I met that Logan guy. He is an ass. He ordered without ever looking at me, you know that? Asked how long I've been a waitress, but his tone was degrading, you know? He chaps my ass. Tops thought Logan wouldn't change the diner. A snake might shed its skin, but it’s still a snake. And Anthony is friends with this guy! I am astounded."
“Stone Enterprises, Logan Stone?”
I nod my head. "Yes. The same."
“Wow, he is filthy rich. Oh, I see where a lot of the issues are coming from. He cuts down trees.” Dylan slides his eyes over to mine, taking his eyes off the road for a moment.
The Hangover Page 3
