Cocky Roommate

by Claire Kingsley

  And now she’s gone.

  Fucking cancer. Anger seeps in around the disquiet. They told me my mother was getting better too. Not that she looked it. After her surgery, she suffered through months of chemotherapy. It made her sick for days on end. By the time the nausea and vomiting abated, she’d have to go in for another treatment. Her hair fell out. She wasted away to nothing but skin and bones. But she assured me it was making her better. That she would be all right.

  I remember hearing people say remission. Looking back, I realize they must have been using that word mistakenly, or simply as a possibility. She never went into remission. The chemo beat the cancer back for a while, but it returned with a vengeance. Eventually, there was nothing more they could do.

  She was so small. So frail. They shouldn’t have let me see her at the end. I was too young to cope with how she looked. But it wasn’t like anyone was watching out for me. I was shooed out of the way, punished for being where I shouldn’t be. But no one was taking care of me.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to banish the memories of my dying mother. People die of cancer every day. It’s fucked up, and it isn’t fair, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

  Tanya looks in my office again. “Sorry. Your father is here.”

  With enormous effort, I keep my face still. “Okay.”

  A few seconds later, my father comes in and closes the door behind him. He’s dressed in his usual button-down shirt and slacks—expensive and custom-tailored. He’s an imposing figure—tall, with straight posture and an air of arrogance that surrounds him like a cloud. His once dark brown hair is peppered with gray and his eyes are brown. I get my gray eyes from my mother, but otherwise, I look a lot like him.

  “Weston,” he says as he sits across from me.

  “Dad.”

  “We need to talk.”

  Dread settles over me. That phrase never precedes good news. “About what?”

  “I’ve been talking with Ian,” he says. “About the finances.”

  “And?”

  “Weston, if you’re going to be a managing partner, you need to get your goddamn act together,” he says. “Do you realize the size of the cash flow problem we have here?”

  “I’m well aware,” I say. “I talked to Ian about his spending sprees the other day. The guy acts like this place is his personal piggy bank.”

  “You and I both know that’s not the problem,” he says.

  “Excuse me? How is that not the problem?”

  “What is this about you doing free surgeries?” he asks. “Ian says you’re doing a lot of them.”

  My back stiffens, but I try to maintain a casual air. I don’t want to come across as defensive. “I do some pro bono work under certain circumstances. But that’s not causing the practice’s cash flow problem.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” he says. “Of course it is.”

  I clench my teeth and take a breath. “As I already told Ian, these people wouldn’t be patients if I didn’t comp their surgeries. And I don’t use any of the practice’s money. If there are other costs they can’t cover, I pay for it personally.”

  “What the hell are you doing?” he asks. “That’s absolutely costing the practice money. You know how much we make on a single surgery. You work on someone who can’t pay, you’re neglecting a patient who can. That’s costing us tens of thousands of dollars every time.”

  I lean back in my seat. “Then I’ll do them on my own time; schedule outside my normal hours. But that doesn’t change the fact that Ian is spending the practice’s money on personal shit.”

  “Ian is not the one to blame here,” he says. “Ian’s patient roster is overflowing. He’s done more surgeries than you in the last few months, by quite a lot.”

  “I was fucking injured,” I say. “I spent a month recovering from a car accident. Or did you conveniently forget about that?”

  “Regardless,” he says, waving a hand, “you can’t run a business by giving your services away for free.”

  “Dad, I’ve looked at the numbers,” I say. “It has nothing to do with me doing a handful of surgeries on the side. There’s a constant drain on the practice’s funds and I don’t know where that money is going. If Ian’s using the credit card like his mommy gave it to him, what else is he doing with the practice’s money?”

  His face goes stony, his eyes narrowing. “Are you accusing Ian of stealing from his own business?”

  “Our business, Dad,” I say. “It’s not his anymore. He was fucking it up well before I got here. So why would you think he’s suddenly handling the finances well? Because you’re involved? You don’t think he’d screw you over?”

  “No, he wouldn’t screw me over,” he says. “I’ve known Ian a long time. I trust him.”

  “You’ve known me my entire fucking life,” I say. “But you don’t trust me.”

  “I have been telling you since you were old enough to understand the lesson,” he says, “trust is earned. Respect is earned.”

  “And I’ve done nothing to earn that from you?” I gesture to the framed diplomas displayed on my office wall. “None of that matters? Being one of the best plastic surgeons in the region doesn’t matter? What the fuck do you want from me?”

  “I want you to get your head out of your ass,” he says. “You’re running a business to make money, not a goddamn charity. You always were too much like your mother.”

  I clench my hands into fists and level him with a glare. “Do not talk about my mother.”

  He crosses his arms and lifts an eyebrow. “What do you think you know about her? You were a child.”

  “You’re right, I was a child,” I say. “But I was old enough to know you were cheating on her. Old enough to realize you abandoned her when she was sick.”

  “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he says, leaning forward and pointing a finger at me. “You have no idea what it was like.”

  “Yes, I do. Fuck, Dad, I was there. Not that you’d remember. You were off with whatever mistress you were fucking at the time while your wife was at home dying.”

  His face turns purplish-red and the cords in his neck stand out. “You ungrateful little prick. This is how you talk to me? After everything I’ve done for you?”

  “Then don’t come in here and accuse me of causing the practice’s financial problems,” I say. “I’m not putting anything in jeopardy by donating some of my time. What’s wrong with trying to do a little good in the world? You should try it sometime. It feels a lot better than being a narcissistic bastard.”

  “God, you do sound like her,” he says. “You want to know the truth about your mother? She was weak. She never would stand up for herself. Let people walk all over her. Criticize my parenting all you want, I had a huge hurdle to get over to keep you from winding up the same way. And now look at you. If you can keep from running this place into the ground, you’ll have it made.”

  I stare at him, unbridled hatred coursing through me. Feeling such rage toward your own father isn’t natural. But hearing him talk about my mother with such disdain makes me want to rip his throat out. The fact that I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in prison is literally the only thing keeping me on my side of the desk.

  “Get the fuck out,” I say, my voice cold.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me,” I say. “Out.”

  “You can’t kick me out,” he says.

  “I just did.” He opens his mouth to respond, but I cut him off before he can speak. “Get. Out.”

  I keep my eyes locked on his, my jaw clenched tight, until he stands. With one last hard look at me, he leaves, closing the door behind him.

  It takes every ounce of self-control I possess to keep from trashing my own office. Anger rages through me, like hot steel coursing through my veins. I hate him. I fucking hate him for what he did to my mother. For what he did to me. And that bastard thinks he can come in here and lecture me? Accuse me of causing the pr
actice’s problems?

  Fuck him.

  I grab my keys and head out the back door so I won’t have to talk to anyone on the way out. I’m so angry, I don’t trust myself to speak. I get in my car and drive away, not paying attention to where I’m going. I just drive. I can’t stop thinking about my mother. About Suzanna Holton. My bastard of a father. That fucking douchebag, Ian.

  I’m wound up as tight as a spring, ready to snap.

  26

  Weston

  I’m still furious when I finally drive home, rage boiling in my gut. Kendra’s car isn’t in the driveway, and that pisses me off even more. Where the fuck is she? We have plans with her family tonight, and I’m late. She should be here.

  I check my phone on the way inside, but I don’t have any messages. I could text her to see where she is, but instead I stalk down the hallway to my room and toss my phone on the bed. It fucking figures she’d be late after the day I’ve had.

  After changing my clothes, I head to the kitchen and down a glass of bourbon in two swallows. I pour another and get some aspirin out of the cupboard. Fucking headache.

  The door opens and Kendra comes in.

  “Hey,” she says, closing the door behind her. “Sorry, I went to Costco with my dad. He has a hard time pushing those big carts around, but he’s too stubborn to just let me do the shopping for him.” She shrugs off her coat and puts down her purse. “Luckily it wasn’t busy, but he doesn’t get around very fast, so it took forever. But, now he has enough toilet paper for the next six months, so he has that going for him.”

  I don’t say anything, just take a sip of my drink. I can’t be mad at her for helping her dad, but I’m so fucking angry.

  “Anyway, I know we’re late. I already texted Alex and Caleb to let them know,” she says. “But we should still hurry.”

  The last thing I want to do tonight is hang out with Kendra’s brothers. I need to be alone. I take another swallow. “I’m going to bow out tonight. Stay here.”

  She comes into the kitchen. “Oh. Okay. Are you all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “Sure, but how are you really?” She puts a hand on my arm, but I shrug it off.

  “I said I was fine.”

  “Weston, what’s going on?” she asks. “What happened?”

  I take a deep breath. “My fucking father. The practice is losing money. He and Ian are blaming me.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she says. “Do you know what’s really going on?”

  “Ian’s bankrolling his fucking adultery on the practice’s dime.”

  “Oh my god. Does your dad know that?”

  I shrug. “He doesn’t think it’s the problem.”

  She pauses for a second, her eyes searching. “Does this have anything to do with the patients you help at no charge?”

  I raise my eyebrows in surprise. I’ve never discussed this with her. “How do you know about that?”

  Her forehead tightens and she hesitates for a second before answering. “Mia told me. One of the patients she’s working with had you listed as the surgeon. So she kind of looked into it.”

  “That’s fucking confidential,” I say, my voice sharp.

  “It’s not like she gave me the patient’s personal information,” she says. “She only told me that you were doing the surgery for free.”

  “It’s none of Mia’s goddamn business.”

  “Okay, sorry. You don’t have to get angry about it,” she says. “Have you thought more about leaving the practice? Maybe it’s time to cut ties with Ian, and your dad.”

  I down the last of my drink, slam the glass on the counter, and start walking to my room. “I don’t need you telling me what to do.”

  “I’m not telling you what to do,” she says, following me. “I’m just saying, you’re not happy there. You don’t like your partner, and it’s obvious you don’t like having your dad involved in your business.”

  I stop partway down the hall and turn to face her. “Do you know how much money I have wrapped up in that practice? I can’t just walk away from that.”

  “Okay, but what’s your happiness worth?”

  “What kind of a question is that?” I ask.

  “A good question,” she says. “Working is about more than money.”

  “And you’re just a shining example of that, aren’t you?” I ask.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You quit your job to do what?” I ask. “Work twelve hours a day from your couch? How sustainable is that? Are you even making enough money to live on?”

  “It’s not easy, but these things take time,” she says. “Why are you giving me shit about my job? Maybe it was irresponsible of me to quit when I did. But at least I’m being true to myself.”

  “I get it,” I say. “You’re overflowing with integrity. Maybe you were hoping some of it would wash off on me.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” she asks.

  “Nothing.” I turn away again.

  “Will you stop doing that,” she says. “Turn around and fucking talk to me.”

  “About what?” I snap. “About my shitty father? About my douchebag of a partner? How about my patient whose cancer came back and she fucking died last week?”

  She touches her fingers to her lips. “Oh, god. Weston, I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Try to help,” I say. “You can’t fucking fix everything. You can’t fix me.”

  “I’m not trying to fix you,” she says.

  “Aren’t you?” I ask, the rage in my gut heating to a boiling point. “Isn’t that what all this is about? You thought I was this wounded little puppy and you could nurse me back to health and maybe teach me to be a good boy. But I’m not, Kendra. There’s nothing good about me. I’m a fucking predator, not a pet. You can’t change who I am.”

  “I’m not trying to change you,” she says, her voice rising. “How could you even say that?”

  I know she’s not. I know I’m fucking this up, but now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop. “No? Then why do you keep bringing up my job? Carting me around to do shit with your family?”

  “God, Weston, why are you doing this?” she asks. “I don’t want to change you. Give me some fucking credit; I’m not that stupid.”

  “You sure about that?” I ask, my voice hard.

  The stricken look on her face feels like a knife in my gut. Her lips part and her eyes flash with anger. “You know what your problem is?”

  “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  “You’re scared,” she says.

  “Fuck you,” I say. “I’m done.”

  “Oh no you’re not,” she says, following me as I stalk down the hall. “You’re so scared of letting anyone into your life, you treat people like shit so you don’t have to care about them. You don’t want to risk feeling anything. And it works pretty well, doesn’t it?”

  I stop with my hand on the door. I’m breathing hard, my back knotted with tension. “My life was fine before I moved in here.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure it was great,” she says. “Fucking random women you don’t give a shit about every weekend. That sounds very fulfilling.”

  I whirl on her. “What the fuck would you know about my life? I’ve been here a few months, and suddenly you’re the expert? Maybe my life was better before.”

  “How can you look at me and say that?” she asks, her voice suddenly quiet.

  Even in the dim light of the hallway, I can see her eyes glisten with tears. My chest feels like it’s being ripped open, the pain worse than my car accident. It makes me angrier. I hate the way this feels. This is why I stay away from people. What the fuck was I thinking? How else was this thing with Kendra going to end?

  “I’m moving out,” I say.

  She recoils, like I slapped her. Her eyes blink and she puts a hand on her stomach. “What?”

  “My house is done,” I say, my voice
cold. “It’s been done for a week. I should have left already.”

  “So that’s it?” she asks. “You’re just going to leave?”

  “What the fuck did you expect, Kendra?” I ask. “I was never going to stay.”

  The pain in her face is killing me. I have to get away from her. Tears break free from the corners of her eyes and she stares at me, her mouth open.

  “I would have stayed,” she says, her voice breaking on the last word. She turns around and walks away. A few seconds later, the front door opens and closes.

  I lean against the door and dig my fingers into my chest. Why does this fucking hurt so much? I never should have put myself in this position. I let her get under my skin—let her in too deep.

  My bedroom is a nightmare. The unmade bed, where we woke up together this morning. Some of Kendra’s clothes draped over the chair. Her pillow with the light blue paisley pillowcase, the pattern standing out against my gray sheets.

  Fuck this. I stayed out of relationships for a reason. This reason. To avoid these goddamn feelings. I’ll get my shit out, move back into my house, and move on. Things will go back to the way they were before.

  It’s better this way.

  27

  Kendra

  When I get home a few hours later, Weston is gone.

  His room is empty. The furniture is there, but the bed is stripped, the dresser and nightstands bare. All his things are gone. I stand in the middle of his room—what was, for a little while, our room—and hold my hand over my mouth.

  I want to collapse onto the floor and cry, but no tears will come.

  I don’t understand what happened. We got into an argument over… what? He was mad about his dad, and things at work. About his partner. And then suddenly he’s accusing me of trying to change him? Where did that even come from?

  And why did he leave like that? Without a single word. He hasn’t tried to call. No texts. Is this it? It’s over? We get in a fight, and he just bails? Moves out and moves on?

  What the fuck did you expect, Kendra? I was never going to stay.