Derek

The waiting room at Amherst Good Sam smells like bleach. White walls and gray chairs and posters plastered with tips on how to avoid the flu surround me. The drive took two hours, with Serena and me mostly keeping to ourselves.

She seemed distant, not in a mood to talk.

I guess we were on the same page.

I grab a faded copy of National Geographic and pretend to read because the woman sitting to my left is apparently incapable of picking up on social cues.

No, I don’t want to talk to you.

No, I don’t want to know your name.

No, I don’t care why you’re here.

No, I won’t tell you where I’m from.

No, I don’t care that you like my suit.

No, I won’t tell you where I bought my shoes.

Her nasally Long Island accent yapped in my ear for twenty straight minutes, and by the grace of God, her phone rang and she took the call. I used that opportunity to excuse myself, taking a tour of this side of the hospital and pretending to get lost looking for vending machines.

When I came back, she was gone.

And then she came back.

Now she’s tapping her extra-long acrylic nails against a side table and droning on about the rain we’re supposed to get this week.

“I’m really sorry,” I finally say, getting up and moving to the opposite side of the waiting room.

The woman’s jaw hangs, and I hear her call me an “asshole.”

But it was worth it.

I’m tucked away in a quiet corner of the waiting area when my mind flashes to earlier this afternoon, a mere few hours prior.

“Derek, come in and have a seat. We need to talk,” my father’s thumb ran the length of his thick mustache as he rose from my office chair.

I closed the door and braced myself for a lecture about something he thinks I did or didn’t do.

He perched on the edge of my desk, his hands folded tight across his stiff chest, his eyes piercing and small.

“Are you housing Serena Randall?” My father wasted no time.

“I am.”

“Why. The hell. Would you do that?” His arms unlocked so his fist could slam into the mahogany desktop. A jar of pens rattled and tipped over. He pointed his finger inches from my face. “I specifically told you not to get involved that way, and you gave me your word, Derek. You promised you wouldn’t cross the line. And now she’s living with you?”

Fucking Demi.

I should have told her not to say anything, but I was in such a hurry to get out of there the other night, I didn’t have a chance.

“Justice Harcourt appointed our firm to handle Serena Randall’s conservatorship. Do you know why?”

I didn’t answer, assuming it was a rhetorical question.

“Do you know why, Derek?” His words were accompanied with a spray of spit. “Because we have an upstanding reputation. One that I’ve spent my entire career building. One that I refuse to let you piss away because you have a thing for a hot piece of ass with a fat bank account.”

He leaned in closer, his aftershave burning my nostrils.

“Do you realize how this looks? God help you if the media catches wind of this.” He pounded his fist once more. “I will not be made a laughingstock because my son can’t keep his dick in his pants. And don’t even get me started on the professional repercussions of your indiscretions. Jesus, Derek.”

I understood my father was mad. I understood there was no changing his perception of the truth. And I understood there was nothing I could say or do to change what had already been done.

“I can assure you, I’m only looking out for her best interest. There is no love, no romance, nothing of that nature,” I said. “Serena Randall is a client and a client only. The reputation of the firm is not at risk.”

His face softened only slightly. He wanted to believe me. But he also hated being wrong in his convictions.

He slid off my desk, rising tall, his beady eyes never leaving mine. “Don’t screw me over, Derek. Don’t screw yourself over. Women aren’t worth half the trouble they are. Except your mother. She’s a goddamned saint.”

Exactly. She was a saint for putting up with his hard-headed ass for the last thirty years.

My father moved to the door, a hopeful sign that his little lecture was finally coming to an end.

“Don’t,” he said, finger pointing once more. “Don’t get involved with her. Don’t admit to anyone she’s living with you. Don’t cross the line.”

I wanted to ask, “Or what?”

But I already knew the answer.

“You have nothing to worry about,” I said. Regardless of whatever has happened or will happen, Serena made it perfectly clear she wants nothing to do with me after this. I’m her attorney. Her conservator. Nothing more. Nothing less. “There’s nothing between Ms. Randall and myself.”

Nothing at all.

“Good.” He huffed. “Because I’m sending in her stepmother. She showed up in tears this morning, demanding to know Serena’s whereabouts. She’s worried sick about her daughter and the estate, and you get to be the one to assure her this isn’t the way it looks.”

The door slammed.

This wasn’t Demi’s doing after all. It was Eudora.

Five minutes later, Gladys ushered in Mrs. Randall. Veronica Kensington-Randall. In the flesh. All five-foot-seven of her. Five-foot-eleven, if you counted her red-bottomed heels.

* * *

Serena appears from a long, white hallway, her mouth morphed into a calmed smile as she walks my way.

“He’s going to be okay,” she says, exhaling and taking the seat beside me. “He has a concussion from the fall and some cracked ribs. He was in a lot of pain, but they’re getting it under control for him.”

“That’s good.”

“Thank you.” Serena places her hand over mine. “Thank you for dropping everything and driving me here. It means the world.”

I nod, flipping the page of the magazine I’m fake-reading.

“He’s going to be here for a couple of days at least,” she says. “But he’s in good hands.”

“Good.”

Her face scrunches. “Will you stop? What happened to the no bullshit rule? You’ve been acting strange ever since you asked me to stay.”

I shrug. “No idea what you’re talking about, Serena. This is me. Sometimes I’m not in the mood for conversation. It’s not a crime.”

Her legs cross, and she leans back in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs, shaking her head.

“What?” I ask.

“You’re just not who I thought you were.”

“That’s what you get for thinking you have someone figured out less than two weeks into knowing them.” I flip another page. “Getting to know someone takes a long time. And you could be with someone for years and never really know them. But I digress.”

The clicking of heels on tile pulls our attention toward the sliding glass doors by the entry. Veronica Kensington-Randall, still donning the ridiculously pink Chanel tweed suit from hours earlier, storms through the lobby.

“Oh, God.” Serena’s body tenses. “Here comes the Wicked Witch of the East Coast.”

Veronica spots us immediately, and her fists clench at her sides. She storms our way, and if I had to guess, she’s resenting the fact that we were able to get here first. Maybe if she hadn’t been skulking around Rixton Falls, trying to figure out where Serena was, she’d have been here sooner.

I refused to tell her where I lived earlier, nor did I confirm that Serena was, in fact, staying with me. If she wants my address, she can whip out her iPad Mini and do a quick Google search like the rest of the world.

And that’s what’s wrong with people like her. They’re entitled. They make a demand and expect it to be fulfilled like we’re all genies doing their bidding.

“You again.” She huffs, her tight eyes rolling.

She doesn’t much care for me, especially not after our little meet-and-greet in my office this morning. My father wanted me to smooth things over, but he forgets—my job is strictly to look out for Serena’s best interests. Veronica is not a part of that picture, especially not with all the dirt I’m about to dig up on her.

I simply assured her that Serena was in good hands. Her estate was essentially untouched. And that she had nothing to worry about.

And then I showed her out.

“Again?” Serena asks.

“Yes,” I say. “I had the distinct pleasure of meeting your stepmother earlier this afternoon. She paid a visit to Rosewood and Rosewood.”

“Why would you do that?” Serena stares hard at Veronica.

“I was concerned about you.” Veronica folds her arms against her chest.

“Liar.” Serena’s nose wrinkles. “You couldn’t stand losing control over me, but I have news for you—”

“Serena.” I place my hand across her lap to silence her. “Don’t say another word.”

Veronica smirks, her expression overly confident. Too self-assured.

“But . . .” Serena protests.

“As your attorney, I’m instructing you to not breathe another word.” I rise, bending my arm and offering to escort Serena. She hesitates before slipping her hand in the crook of my elbow, her eyes drifting to Veronica’s and then mine. I turn to Mrs. Randall. It’d be tempting to warn her, to blurt out that we’re on track to dissolve the conservatorship and we’ll be petitioning the changes to the medical power of attorney.

But I know better.

We’ll keep our cards close to the chest.

And when the time comes, we’ll win.

That is, if I’m still representing her by then.

“Have a great evening, Veronica.” I pull Serena close, and we leave Amherst Good Sam and head back to Rixton Falls.

“Thank you.” Serena watches me from the corner of her eye as we drive home.

“Just doing my job.”

“You’re good at what you do,” she says.

I shrug.

She watches me from the passenger seat. “I like having you in my corner.”