Unspoken

by Haley Pierce

  He shakes his head. “Not hungry. Again,” he says, picking up the paper covering for my straw. He starts to shred it. “I’m sorry about last night, and if I caused you any embarrassment.”

  I shake my head. “It’s okay. I understand,” I tell him. “Were things really bad at that meeting?”

  He lets out a short, pained laugh. “Yeah. You could say that.”

  “Why?”

  He leans forward. As he does, I notice a couple women sitting at a table diagonally behind him, staring at him. When they notice me, they start to give me dirty looks. He murmurs, conspiratorially, “I don’t know if this is going to work after all. I get the feeling my father has already made his decision, and he just hasn’t told me yet.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Dan was already running the show. The board members were already acting like he was the one in charge,” he explains, looking out the window, into the cloud-filled sky. “I get the feeling everyone knows something I don’t.”

  I sit up straight as he seems to slump. “Don’t give up, okay? Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe you’ll meet with him and everything will be fine. After all, you’re the one who knows the company best.”

  He nods. “Yeah. You’re right.”

  I push away from the table. “I probably should go upstairs. Joey should be waking up any time now. Do you want to come with me?”

  I expect him to make an excuse, as most people do when faced with such a difficult and uncomfortable situation. Instead, he says, “Yeah. Lead the way.”

  He takes my tray to the disposal, leaving me to pick up the teddy bear. The staring women continue to stare at him, at me, as if they can’t understand how we’re together. I guess I don’t look much like his fiancé at all, dressed in my Columbia sweatshirt and jeans.

  Once we’re in the elevator, headed upstairs, I hand him the teddy bear, doing my best to avoid touching him, but even so, the tips of my fingers graze his warm wrist. “He’ll really appreciate this,” I say, staring at the numbers as they climb to the seventh floor, afraid to even look at him.

  My phone dings with a text when we’re nearly at the floor. I lift it up and look at the message from Talia: Hell girl, attractive? He can make a snowman catch fire.

  Then I pocket the phone to hide the display, hoping he hadn’t seen it. God, that would really suck if he sees it.

  We take a path I’ve become so familiar with; it might as well be my own apartment. In the room, Joey is up, sitting at his table, coloring. I stare at him, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. They said that the medicine worked fast, but I had no idea how fast. A few days ago, he could barely sit up.

  I linger outside the window, covering my mouth with my hand. Then I step away from the door so that Joey won’t see the tears in my eyes.

  Max follows me. “Are you . . .”

  I nod fiercely, smiling as I wipe the tears away with the back of my hand. “I just . . . he’s up. Coloring. He’s so much better than before. A week ago, it was . . .”

  I can’t even bring myself to say how bad it was.

  He rips the starched handkerchief from his breast pocket and hands it to me. I was certain these things were just for show, but apparently not, with Max. It’s silky and too fine as I dab the corner of my eyes with it. I simply will not use it on my nose, though I could probably use a good blowing. I sniffle, fold it into a square, and nod. “I’m good.”

  We appear in the doorway and I knock. The second I do, Joey’s face, full of intent concentration, brightens to a wide smile I almost thought I’d never see again. “Lily!” he says.

  I walk inside with Max behind me. “Hey there. How are you doing?”

  He pushes a Spiderman drawing over to me. “Look at that.”

  “Wow, that’s good,” I say, sitting on the edge of his bed and smoothing his hair away from his forehead. He feels cool, perfect.

  His eyes trail over to the suited stranger, lingering in the door.

  “Hey, buddy,” he says. “I’m Max. I brought you a friend.”

  Joey doesn’t say anything as he usually goes mute around strangers, but I can tell from his adoring gaze that he’s delighted by the gift. Max plants it on the side of the bed, within his reach, and digs his hands into his pockets.

  “Max just came by to see how you’re doing,” I explain. And he’s also responsible for saving your life.

  Joey says, “I’m okay. I don’t really need any more shots though. The doctor said they’re gonna give me some.”

  He pouts.

  Just then, Dr. Campbell, the brusque jerk of a doctor I can’t stand, appears. Behind him, a nurse walks in, wheeling a cart. Fear coils inside my chest when I see Joey’s eyes widen. He starts to kick his legs, a nervous, fidgeting habit he’s always had. I want to lunge across and bar Dr. Campbell from the room. “Where is Dr. Ayers?” I ask frantically.

  “Dr. Ayers left on vacation this morning,” the bald doctor mutters with no bedside manner whatsoever, watching the nurse prepare the shots. There are several of them, and if they look menacing to me, I can only imagine how they must look to an eight-year old. “She’ll be back next week.”

  Next week?

  “Okay,” I breathe, wondering how I can put this off any more. I dig my fingers into my palms so hard that it leaves red moons in the flesh. “But what is this for?”

  “This is to keep the child’s white blood cell levels stable,” he says, not even looking at me.

  There it is again. The child.

  Joey flinches to the edge of the bed as the doctor grabs his arm. “Wait!” I shout.

  Every body in the room freezes, and all eyes turn to me.

  “First of all, he’s not the child. He’s Joey Brogan,” I say pointedly to the doctor, my voice flat.

  The doctor straightens and a small, condescending smile appears on his face. “I realize that, but—“

  “I don’t think you do,” Max suddenly speaks up. “Because if you did, you wouldn’t be grabbing him like he’s a piece of meat. He’s a kid, in case you didn’t realize, and you’re scaring him.”

  The doctor straightens, looks at Max, then back at Joey’s fearful face. His grip on Joey’s arm loosens. He steps away, toward Max, and offers him a hand to shake, because I suppose in his three-piece suit, he’s the embodiment of importance. “I’m sorry. I’m Dr. Campbell. Who are you?”

  Max doesn’t take his hand. He keeps his hands in his pockets and says, “I’m Max Winchester, and I would like another oncologist to take care of Joey from here on out.”

  The doctor’s eyes widen. “I’m . . . well, that’s impossible. I’m the only one on duty right now.”

  Max shakes his head smoothly. “I think it’s possible, especially considering the millions of dollars my family’s donated to this hospital last year.”

  He swallows, looks away, backs down. “Well . . .I’ll have to run this by our chief of staff.”

  “Fine. Do it now. I don’t care what you have to do,” he says, his eyes boring into the man as he speaks, low and controlled. He stands a full head taller than him, dwarfing him, and the power he exudes is almost overwhelming me, from across the room. “But Joey will get the best treatment possible; however you are not to touch him ever again. Do you hear me?”

  Dr. Campbell nods. His face has turned pink; even the top of his bald head is blushing. He motions to the nurse. “Nurse, please see who on staff might be able to administer these shots.” He looks at me. “Don’t forget. Billing department would still like to see you about your outstanding bill.”

  And then, without looking back, he leaves, his heels tapping on the tile floor.

  When I can get my breath back, I look at Max, who is still scowling after him. “Thank you,” I whisper.

  He reaches down to pick up a purple crayon that has rolled off of Joey’s table. He sets it down and says, “Any time. What outstanding bill?”

  I shake my head. It turns out that the money he’d wired to me had only been
able to take care of his first year of backed-up medical costs. The bills for this experimental treatment were beyond astronomical. Most of the doctors were good about them, but then there was Dr. Campbell. “Not a big deal. I might be able to work out some arrangement, they tell me.”

  Meaning, probably, bankruptcy.

  “Have them sent to me,” he says casually. As I stare at him dumbly, he says to Joey, “That’s a pretty good ghost you drew. Show me how you did that?”

  “It’s the Haunted Mansion at Disney,” he explains. “Lily says that when I’m feeling better, we’re all going to go there.”

  He leans forward, seeming completely interested in this little boy he’s only just met. “Oh, yeah? It’s cool. I’ve been there.”

  An hour later, after Joey has showed Max every drawing trick in his repertoire, another oncologist shows up. She’s warm and sweet, and coaxes him into the shots sweetly and without much trouble. It’s not a pleasant experience, but it’s not too terrible, either.

  Shortly, Max tells him he has to leave. I figure, considering that he’s been with me for more than two hours and he’s the person who keep Winchester Properties afloat, he probably had to leave about an hour and a half ago. He gives Joey a high-five, and Joey grins after him as we walk into the hallway.

  “He’s a good kid,” Max says.

  “I know.”

  “Seriously, Lily. I’ll have my assistant get in touch with you to arrange to get those bills taken care of.”

  It’s enough to draw tears from my eyes. He was only supposed to use me. I didn’t know he’d turn out to be my knight in shining armor. Who ever thought I’d meet a Prince Charming in a sex club?

  “Thanks again,” I say to him when we’re near the elevators. “For that. For the bear. And for getting the new doctor. You don’t know how many problems I’ve had with Dr. Campbell.”

  “If you ever have problems like that again,” he says, pressing the button for the lobby, “Call me. I’ll get on them. That doctor doesn’t belong in pediatric oncology. I’m not sure he belongs in medicine at all.”

  I nod, smiling up at him. He looks at me, and in the silence that passes, memories of those texts messages, of that kiss creep in.

  I’m going to blush again.

  “Lily,” he murmurs softly. “I . . .”

  He pauses. There’s something in his eyes that tells me what he has to say is going to have weight. It’s hard for him. I wait anxiously for his next words, but he merely presses his lips together and shakes his head. “Yes?” I prompt him.

  “No. It’s nothing. Tomorrow afternoon, then?” he asks. “My limo will pick you up at four, if that’s agreeable to you. My father usually wakes from his nap and has dinner at five.”

  I swallow. “Yes. I’m ready.”

  I try to get up the courage to tell him what he means to me. I want to be able to explain to him that what he did for me and Joey wasn’t just amazing. No, so much of my life, since my parents died, was being kicked in the face. What he did, in fact, is the only nice thing that’s happened to me—to us— in years.

  I open my mouth to say it, but then there’s a loud ding overhead, from the elevator, and the doors slide open.

  He leans over and gives me a very chaste kiss on the cheek. But as chaste as it is, his stubble against my skin, his warm, sweet breath against me . . . it’s enough to make me think some not-very-innocent thoughts.

  “Have a good night, Lily,” he says, before slipping through the elevator doors. He turns, and is giving me that intense gaze, with those ice-blue eyes, when the doors close, his lips still pressed in a straight line.

  I find myself fanning my face as I wander back to Joey’s room. Hell. Talia is right. He probably could set snowmen on fire.

  Max

  I lean back in the seat of the limo and watch as the sunlight makes ripples over the Hudson as we coast over the George Washington Bridge. I take a deep breath, thinking of my brother, Dan. The way he’d constantly parade his meager accomplishments in front of my father, getting praise, while nothing I ever did was enough.

  Today, it will be enough. I’m sure of it.

  It’s been three weeks since I’ve met Lily, and today is the day. Lily’s perfect. Our relationship, on the surface, looks perfect. We look like a couple to reckon with, as fake as the part she’s playing is.

  Funny, though. She’s playing the part of my perfect woman. And yet, I can’t deny there is something about the real Lily. It’s not just her virginity. It’s not even her virginity. Lily, as opposite as she is from me, is . . . interesting. I’ve been with her for longer than any other woman I’ve dated, and I still want more.

  “Hello, Lily White,” I say to her when she answers the door.

  “Don’t call me that, Max with the triple x,” she sing-songs. She looks phenomenal, in one of the Valentinos, a body-hugging pink sweater dress with short sleeves, and pumps. She twirls as she sees me appraising. “How did I do? Do I look like a future Winchester?”

  I tilt my hand back and forth in front of me to say she’s pretty close, but she most definitely does. Though if I was being honest, I like her jean shorts and tank tops more. I like the way they bare the outline of her nipples and her creamy pink legs. But I wouldn’t want my father having a heart attack.

  I take her hand and lead her to the limo, I notice it trembling. “Nervous?” I ask her.

  She nods. “A little. I hope you don’t hate me if he deems me unworthy to be the great Max Winchester’s wife.”

  I shake my head. “He won’t do that. More likely is that he’ll deem me unworthy to marry you.”

  “Oh?”

  “You know, you don’t quite look the part,” I say, studying her phenomenal long legs. I reach into my pocket and pull out a small box. I open it to reveal a giant diamond ring. I purchased it for two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars from Harry Winston, making sure that the return policy was suitable. I just asked for what I thought my finance would wear. “Like it?”

  She stares at it. “Wow.”

  “I asked for the most expensive ring they had. And this was it.”

  She smiles without teeth. “Um. It’s . . . huge.”

  Leave it to her to be unimpressed. Of course, she’d be unimpressed. I take it out and reach for her hand.

  “But I haven’t said yes, yet,” she teases, seeming strangely aloof. Maybe it’s our last text conversation. I’m sure it offended her virgin sensibilities. I don’t know why I let it go that far. Well, I do. I was drunk, and horny. But more than that, I could imagine her little virgin body trembling as she read those texts. And I’d made her come. God, I would’ve given anything to see that. It was deliciously fun, more fun than listening to my asshole brother drone on about fiscal responsibility at Winchester Associates.

  I grab her hand anyway and slide it on. I admire it. She’s right; it is huge on her delicate hand. The more I stare at it, the more I realize that with some things, maybe expensive isn’t better. Her hand is completely lost in it. “Now do I look like a Winchester?” she asks, modeling it against her cheek.

  I press my lips together. No. She’s worth more than that. “Uh. Yeah. You look good.”

  An awkward silence prevails as we both gaze at it. I suppose because I never expected to be in this predicament, and the first time she had a ring presented to her, she probably expected it would be romantic. This isn’t. It’s a business deal. I feel bad for that.

  Her hand falls down at her side like lead, heavy with the weight of the ring, and she clears the air by changing the subject. “So, tell me more about him. About growing up with Dan and him.”

  I shrug. We’ve spoken a lot to get her up to speed on my family dynamic, so there isn’t much more to say. “Like I said, he wasn’t around us kids a lot. Both of them weren’t. He was always taking my mother away on trips. They were really intent on us kids not getting in the way of their love affair.”

  “Well, that’s nice. He must have really loved her.”
/>   Yes, he had. But it took a little while before he learned to appreciate her. And she didn’t fully appreciate him until after I came along, either. I nod. “Anyway, the brownstone we’re going to, I grew up in. It belonged to my grandfather, before my dad. So it’s been in the family a while.”

  “Oh! Can I see your childhood bedroom?”

  I snort. “That was gone the second I went to college. And believe me, it wasn’t the typical kid’s bedroom. The place is . . . kind of like a museum. So you might not want to touch anything. You’ll see.”

  “I don’t think of you as very typical at all,” she says with a smile, looking at me through her mascara-coated eyelashes. She’d put on all the make-up I’d had sent to her, and while it looked nice on her, once again, I liked the other Lily better.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  The limo pulls up to the brownstone on East 62nd Street, across the street from Central Park. She studies the magnificent architecture without remark. Here is one of the most expensive properties in the city, if not the world, and she’s wholly unimpressed. It’s exasperating, but as usual, it gives me a healthy dose of perspective. Lily is clearly a person who isn’t enamored by money in the least.

  We walk inside, an as a servant takes our coats, Dan comes down the stairs, hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Ah. Good. You’re here. He was just asking about you.”

  He shakes my hand, then gives Lily a fake peck on the cheek. “How is he?” I ask.

  “He’s definitely weakening. But he wants to see you.”

  I nod and take Lily’s hand. We climb several rows of steps to the third floor. She doesn’t seem impressed by the Renoirs she passes, despite them being worth millions, or priceless sculptures on pedestals everywhere. The rug under her feet, even, is worth more than her little brother’s treatments. But there’s no need to explain this. It won’t wow her at all.

  At the heavy mahogany door, I pause, look at her, and she gives me an assured smile. I take a deep breath, knock, and push the door open.