I make a sharp one-eighty and return to my room. My left leg hurts like a bitch, but I grit my teeth and do my best to avoid limping. I need to soak it in hot water and get it massaged or it won’t be of any use at all tomorrow.
God how I hate my fucking leg. If I were just a little bit faster, I would’ve been able to catch her back in Chiang Mai…and here. Then it would’ve been my decision whether or not I let her go, not hers.
I wrack my brain for what could’ve triggered another of Ava’s extreme reactions. She was upset at the possibility that I might’ve been unfaithful. But I’m not a cheater. I would never hurt or demean Ava that way.
I already told her I spoke with Blake, and he emphatically denied it. Not that he doesn’t have the capacity to say some horrible shit, but he isn’t the type to deny it afterward. He’d own it, and proudly at that.
Is it because I told her I wasn’t letting her meet my family? She obviously doesn’t like Blake, so it’s only logical to keep them separated. Was it that terrible, enough to make her cry?
I seriously don’t get it.
I draw an extra-hot bath, strip and sit down gingerly in the tub. I stare broodingly at the scars along my leg. They still look like something out of an old Frankenstein movie, much worse than the one on my face. Since I threw out all the shorts I own, nobody—except the medical staff who treats me—has seen the foul, raised tissues.
Meanwhile Ava’s legs are perfectly smooth…flawless, in fact. She often looks away when we talk. Maybe she doesn’t want me to notice something in her expression. Or maybe she just doesn’t want to look at my facial scar, even by chance.
What would she say if she were to see my leg?
Disgusted, I tilt my head upward. Of course she’d be grossed out. No reason not to be horrified.
The heat gradually loosens the tight muscles in my leg—the psoas, the quadriceps, the gracilis, the sartorius… I became an expert on thigh anatomy during my time in rehab. The tension in my shoulders and neck also slowly eases. Sweat beads on my forehead, and I reach for a cold bottle of water.
My phone rings, and I lunge for it, idiotically hoping it’s Ava. Of course it’s not.
Elizabeth. I consider ignoring it, then change my mind. She’ll just call me again later. She can be such a pest.
I put her on speaker. “Yeah?”
“Hello to you too, Lucas.”
I make a face at the gentle rebuke, even though it’s delivered in a voice sweet enough to belong to an angel. My half-sister is a stickler for etiquette, but who can fault her for being polite?
“Hello, Elizabeth. How are you?” There.
“I’m doing well. Thank you, Lucas,” she answers primly.
“And to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”
She laughs. “You’re overdoing it. I just spoke with your assistant, and she told me you’re in Japan.” I can tell from the tone that my sister didn’t quite believe it. My fault—I’ve had Rachel make up excuses to avoid certain obligations in the past.
“If you’re calling to see if I’ll confirm that, yes, I am.”
“I see. Well, that explains why you missed the dinner.”
“What dinner?”
“You forgot?”
“I…don’t have my calendar with me.” But I do vaguely remember hearing about it and giving her something other than a “hell no” in response. So it’s got to be about The Pryce Family Foundation, which she runs. If it were a family function or something, getting together with my relatives, I would’ve definitely scrubbed it from my memory.
“Didn’t I already pay for a ticket?”
She sighs. “It’s not just about giving money. You have to show up.”
“You must be sick if you’re worried about stuff like that.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“You’re worried I’m going to miss the deadline.” I don’t clarify. I don’t need to.