The usual wolf calls and requests for high fives that accompany my walk to my office have been replaced with an uneasy silence. People look up as I approach and then bend their heads back over their desks the second they see who I am. I’ve gone from being greeted like Casanova to the Grim Reaper in the space of a single morning.

I pull the door of my office closed behind me and rush over to my desk, opening up my computer and doing a search for the Bernstein Centre. Their website describes it as ‘a private recovery centre for patients requiring dedicated, long term care on their journey to rehabilitation.’ I didn’t think I’d ever feel excited to see the term ‘stroke victim’ but when I notice it in the list of illnesses they cater to, I throw a punch up in the air.

I go straight to the contact page and my enthusiasm wavers a bit when I realize they have thirty-four locations across the country. According to the map, there are three within a two hour drive of here alone. The thought that she may not even be at Bernstein Centre at all anymore flashes through my mind, clinging like deadweight to the balloon of hope that’s been rising inside me since I had my epiphany about Ludo.

Doing my best to shrug off the doubt, I take out my phone and dial the number for the location that’s just on the edge of the city. I sit through the long recorded message that has about fifteen different options for which button I need to press next. Finally, I get an operator on the line.

“Hello, Bernstein Centre for Recovery. How can I help you today?”

“I was just wondering about a patient you might have. Her name is Rosalind Knox.”

“Do you have her patient extension number?”

“Uh, no,” I reply. “I don’t actually know if she’s staying there. She’s at a Bernstein Centre but I’m not sure which one.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t give that information out. Our patient lists are confidential. I’d suggest you contact someone who knows the patient in question and can give you her extension number. Then we’d be able to put you in touch.”

I tug at a handful of my hair. “I’m not actually trying to speak with her on the phone, per se. I’d just like to know which centre she’s at. I’m her son.”

“As I said before,” the operator responds in a cheerful tone, “our patient lists are confidential.”

“It’s just that I don’t actually have contact with anyone who could tell me where she is.”

I realize that I sound like some sort of scam artist right now and wrack my brains for a way to come across as more legitimate.

“What if I came in person and gave you ID?” I add. “Could I see her then?”

“If the patient is staying here and you’re on her approved visitors list, then yes, you’d be allowed to visit.”

“And if I’m not on the list?” I ask.

“Then no, you would not be allowed to visit.”

I let my head loll over the back of my chair. “So essentially there is no way for me to contact her directly.”

“We take our patients’ security very seriously here at the Bernstein Centre for Recovery. Thank you for understanding.”

Fighting the urge to throw my cell phone across the room, I say goodbye and end the call. Any thoughts I had about storming into my father’s office and thundering out my resignation have been put on hold. I can’t throw away the chance to see my mom that he’s been dangling in front of me until I know I have another way to reach her.

The fear that I’m doing the wrong thing, that this will only make her situation worse, has beads of sweat collecting on the back of neck. The walls of my office start pressing in on me, and I tug at the collar of my shirt, feeling the hands of frustration circle around my throat.

I gather my things and throw on my coat. This whole street has always been a pit of quicksand waiting to swallow me up, and struggling here only drags me deeper.

* * *

Thirty-four letters take up a lot of space. They also cost a hell of a lot of money to send. As someone who won’t have a job after today, I should probably start worrying more about how much things cost. I manoeuvre the contents of my briefcase around to fit all the envelopes inside and realize that despite all that, the four stamp books I got from the post office might be the most worthwhile purchase I’ve ever made.

I spent most of the weekend wandering around my apartment, alternating between thinking about Hailey and coming up with ways to reach my mother. I called nearly every Bernstein Centre in the country, using tactics like pretending I’d forgotten the extension number and claiming I had important legal information to deliver, but nothing seemed to work.

I was starting to get scared I’d gain a nation-wide reputation as ‘That Stalker Guy Who Keeps Calling’ when I managed to trick one operator into admitting there’s a Rosalind Knox on file in the Bernstein Centre network. Even though he realized his mistake in giving out the information and refused to tell me anything else, it was all the confirmation I needed.

She’s at one of those centres, and in all likelihood she’s very close by. Even if the letters don’t work, I’ll find a way to reach her. I hold onto that thought like it’s a torch, leading me on through what I’m going to do today.

I drop the envelopes off in my building’s mail slot, sliding them in one at a time, and then drive to Knox Security. When I head up the elevator to my father’s office this time, my heart still pounds against my chest so hard it feels like it will burst through my skin, but my head is clear, soothed by the notion that for once I have the upper hand.

The secretary gets up from his chair the second he sees me walk through the elevator doors.

“You can’t go in there. You need to book an appointment first.”

I raise my eyebrows at him. “What are you going to do? Throw yourself in front of the door?”

“I’ll call security.”

“Go ahead,” I say, crossing the room and reaching for the door handle.

Being a badass is really liberating, I think, feeling a new energy crackle through my veins.

I swing the door open and I step inside the giant room. My father is typing something on his laptop. He doesn’t raise his eyes as he addresses my entrance.

“Being my son does not give you special privileges about entering my office, Jordan. If you’d like to speak to me, make an appointment like everyone else.”

“I quit.”

He doesn’t even stop moving his hands over the keyboard. “No you don’t, Jordan. Now please stop wasting my time.”

I stride towards his desk and pull another letter out of my briefcase, this one without a stamp. Tossing the envelope down in front of him, I step back and watch him open up my notice of resignation. He scans through the few short sentences and then sighs.

“Need I remind you that—”

“Remind me that I have to do what you say or my mother will get sick?” I ask, cutting him off. “Remind me that I’m personally responsible for the fact that she had a stroke? No, you needn’t remind me of any of that.”

My father folds his hands in front of him and gives me a tired stare, like he’s indulging a child throwing a tantrum.

“You don’t have to remind me because I don’t—”

The end of the sentence lodges in my throat, my belief in the words not strong enough to push them out. I swear I see the ghost of a smirk flicker across my father’s face. He turns back to his laptop, and the thought of walking out of here with my tail between my legs sends an engine revving up inside me.

“I don’t believe that’s true anymore,” I assert, my voice bouncing off the walls. “Sure, maybe me going to design school stressed her out, and maybe I should have broken the news to her better, but I didn’t singlehandedly cause her to have a stroke. I don’t think that all of this”—I wave my arms around, indicating the whole of Knox Security— “would be what she wanted for me if she knew how miserable I was. Do you realize how much you’ve taken away from me? This life I’m leading is not what she’d want. It’s what you want.”

The sentence hangs in the air between us, a challenge waiting to be accepted. My father picks up my resignation letter and holds it up for me to see.

“If you do this, you’ll never see her again. I’ll make sure of that.”

I want to shout that he’s wrong, but I can’t take the risk of him realizing I’ve found out where she is.

“Maybe that’s true,” I tell him, “but I’ll trust she’d be happier not seeing me than seeing me like this.”

Turning away, I cross the office and have my handle on the door when I hear him speak in a low voice from his desk.

“Leave your keys.”

I turn around and blink at him.

“You no longer have the right to use the car or the apartment. Both are in my name. I will have someone accompany you to collect your things later today. No funds, credit cards, or any other assets I’ve given you access to will be available to you anymore. All you will have is what is completely your own,” he intones, stopping to give me a pointed look, “which I know isn’t much. You have twenty minutes to clear your office and leave the building.”

I reach my hand into my pocket, lock eyes with him, and drop my keys onto the floor.

Ladies and gentleman, Jordan Knox has gone rogue, I think as I let myself out the door.

I feel like I could take on a WWE champion right now. I feel like I could take on three WWE champions.

And a lion. I could definitely beat a lion.

Relief whooshes through me, leaving a lightheaded giddiness in its wake. I’m practically snickering as I make my way to the elevator.

My dad clearly thinks I’m bluffing, that he’s just indulging childish threats to run away from home when he knows I’ll be back before sundown. I’m on such an adrenalin high right now that the thought doesn’t even bother me, as if I’m in a bubble where nothing bad can touch me. Even the fact that I don’t know where I’ll sleep tonight doesn’t pop it.

I float to my office and toss the few things I have there into my briefcase.

Okay, I tell myself, now it’s time to get the girl.

In less than five minutes I’m walking through the door of Dark Brown. I recognize the blonde behind the counter from Flirtini Friday. She has movie star features so sharp they’re almost cruel. When she narrows her eyes at me as I approach, I feel like an ant trying to scurry out from under a magnifying glass.

“Is Hailey here?” I ask, more hesitant than I intended.

“You’re Jordan, aren’t you?” she demands, ignoring my question.

“Yeah, I’m Jordan. I know she probably doesn’t want to see me, but could you tell her I’m here? I have something important to say.”

She flips her hair over her shoulder and crosses her arms in front of her chest. “Hailey doesn’t work here anymore,” she announces, “and you’re right. She doesn’t want to see you.”

I shake my head from side to side, her words refusing to arrange themselves into a meaning I can accept.

“She doesn’t work here anymore?” I echo.

“That’s right. She quit.”

The blonde girl fixes me in her stare. Her eyes flash hot enough to burn. “You screwed up, Jordan. You lost her. She’s gone. She just wants you to leave her alone.”

I place a hand on the counter to steady myself. “She quit because of me?”

The girl gives a sharp laugh. “Don’t flatter yourself. She quit because she was done with this place a long time ago. Finding out what an asshole you turned out to be was just the final push she needed to get herself out the door.”

“But I don’t know how else to find her,” I say, my tone verging on desperate.

The girl’s eyebrows draw together just a bit, a crack of sympathy showing through her angry-friend mask.

“That’s kind of the point,” she tells me, a hint of softness in her voice. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have customers.”

She turns to the few people who have collected by the cash.

I back away, feeling like I’ve reached a dead end in a maze when I thought I’d found the exit. I sit down at one of the tables and let my mind run in circles, scratching at walls and rounding the same corners again and again.

Where else would Hailey go?

The idea rises in me like steam from a coffee mug. I get my phone out and look up the address.

* * *

Cuppa Joe is next to empty when I walk inside, making it easy that see that Hailey is not miraculously sitting on one of the couches, a smile of forgiveness lighting up her face at the sight of me coming through the door. I don’t think I actually expected her to be here, but the disappointment shatters me just the same.

The woman with purple hair that spoke to us on our date is standing behind the counter, eyeing me as I take a few steps into the cafe. Desperation sends me striding towards her.

“Have you seen—”

I cut myself off, realizing I’m just going to sound like a stalker all over again.

“Never mind,” I say, shaking my head. “She’s not here. I don’t know why I thought she would be.”

I turn to leave, but the woman calls out to me.

“I recognize you. You’re Hailey’s...You’re Jordan, aren’t you?”

I face her again. “Yes. That’s me.”

“She told me about you.”

A foothold appears on the ledge I’ve been hanging off of.

“She did? What did she say?”

The woman raises a dark brown eyebrow that clashes with her hair. “What do you think she said?” she asks, her tone turning the question into an accusation.

I’m getting ridiculed by a lot of baristas today.

“Probably that I’m a dickhead she never wants to see again.”

A smile pulls at the woman’s lips.

“Among other things,” she tells me, and then gestures to a stool by the counter. “Sit down for a minute.”

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I apologize, sliding onto the stool. “Also, I forget what your name is.”

“Mel,” she supplies.

“I’m sorry, Mel. I didn’t know where else to look. She quit her job at the cafe. She told me not to contact her. She even blocked my number.”

“Ever thought about just leaving her alone?”

I blink. The thought hits me like a blast of cold air, and I take a few moments to come up with my answer.

“If that would make her happy, then yes,” I say, pausing to let the truth of the words sink in. “I just want to give her the whole story. I hurt her. I think she deserves to know why.”

“And what is the reason why?”

I look at Mel. I don’t even know her. Maybe it’s the fact that she’s one of my last links to Hailey, or that she has the aura of some sort of lavender-haired guru. Maybe it’s just that this warm air and leather seat are made for long conversations, but suddenly I’m spilling my life story to a purple-haired stranger.

She just nods through the whole thing, stopping me every now and then to pour a drink or ring someone up. I tell her everything, even the darkest details about my mom. I tell her how Hailey reached inside me and pulled out the best parts of who I am, the ones I didn’t think anyone else could see. I tell her about all the times I screwed up.

“I don’t deserve her,” I finish, sounding as hopeless as I feel.

She claps me on the shoulder. “You’re right,” she says grimly, “and with that attitude, you never will.”

“Gee, thanks,” I reply.

She shrugs. “Honesty is my policy. Now do you want my advice?”

“I’ll take any advice you’ve got.”

“If I’d only heard Hailey’s side of the story, I’d tell you to just let her go and move on. You really did screw up,” she admonishes, “but I’m not a stranger to screwing up. I believe you care about her and I think you’re right; she does deserve to hear everything you just told me. So my first piece of advice is that you quit going on and on about how bad what you did was. The time has come to fix it, not talk about it.”

“But how do I fix it?”

“You start with my second piece of advice,” Mel continues. “Give her some time to herself while you get your act together. Right now you’re jobless, homeless, and your entire life is in shreds. That’s not exactly a solid platform for proving you’ve turned yourself around. Concentrate on that, and give Hailey some time to get her life in order. She’s too hurt to accept an apology right now.”

“And then?” I ask, ignoring the fact that I have no idea how to do any of that.

“Then you have to think of a way to prove you’re sorry with actions, not just words. It should be something that’s meaningful to you, something that will make her realize how serious you are about this.”

“Like what?”

“That’s where my advice ends,” laughs Mel.

“But even if I do all of those things, how do I find her?” I ask, figuring Mel must hold the keys to every answer in my life.

It turns out she does.

“Come back here when you’re ready,” she tells me. “I’ll see what I can do.”