“Fifty thousand . . .” He shook his head like he was questioning his hearing. “Stella, I can’t—”

“Before you say no, think about it,” she said as her heart rate jumped. “Please.”

He pushed away from the table and got to his feet. “I need some time.”

“Of course.” She stood up and held her breath, nervous, unsure what to do. “As much as you need.”

Wrapping a hand around her upper arm, he took a half step toward her. He leaned down a few inches before he caught himself. Eyes intent on her mouth, he outlined the edges of her lips with his fingertips, sending shivers of awareness outward. “I’ll tell you by next Friday. Is that okay?”

“That’s fine.”

He bit his teeth into his bottom lip like he was thinking about kissing her, and her own lips tingled in response. “Good night, then, Stella.”

“Good night, Michael.”

In a state of breathless numbness, she watched as he let himself out.

{ CHAP+ER }

12

Jab, jab, cross. Jab, jab, cross. Cross. Cross. Cross.

Sweat trickled into Michael’s eyes, burning him, and he swiped a forearm over his face before slamming a fist into the punching bag again. Whenever thoughts crept back into his head, he hit harder. Too many fucking thoughts, too many fucking feelings.

Jab, dodge, hook. Jab, cross.

His arms burned, and he welcomed the pain, welcomed the way it seared everything out of his brain. There was nothing but the hard resistance of the sand in the bag and the jolting impact that shocked up his arm and down his leg.

Jab, jab, jab, cross, cross, cross. Harder. Could he punch the bag straight off its chains? Maybe. Cross, cross, cross, cross—

Loud knocks distracted him midpunch, and he glared at the front door. His annoyance quickly morphed into worry. Shit, was it the landlord?

Throwing a towel around his neck, he went to open the door.

“’Sup, cuz.” Quan brushed past him, set a six-pack of beer bottles on the coffee table, and tossed his motorcycle jacket on the couch. Without pausing to look at Michael, he strode into the kitchen and began digging through the fridge. “Got anything to eat?”

“You’re the one who works at a restaurant,” Michael said on his way back to his punching bag.

It still swung side to side from the pummeling he’d given it, and he steadied it before he drove a fist into the faded leather. As he got back into beating the shit out of the bag, he heard a series of beeps followed by the whirring of the microwave.

“I’m eating your leftovers,” Quan called out.

Michael ignored him and continued punching.

The microwave beeped, and shortly afterward, Quan carried a steaming bowl to the couch, sat, and proceeded to eat Michael’s dinner. Very noisily.

When Michael couldn’t take the slurping sounds any longer, he paused in his punching and said, “Most people eat at the kitchen table.”

Quan shrugged. “I like the couch better.” He shoved a forkful of noodles into his mouth and slurp-chewed, arching his eyebrows at Michael in a what gives? way.

Michael gritted his teeth and tried to find his rhythm again.

“You been hitting the weights hard lately? Your arms are bigger. They’re like grapefruits, man.”

Steadying the bag, Michael asked, “Why are you here?”

“You gonna apologize to me or what? Because you’re the shittiest cousin ever, Michael. You really are.”

He shut his eyes, exhaling. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna have to ask you to try that again.”

He pushed away from the bag and threw himself onto the couch next to his cousin. “I’m really sorry. It’s just complicated right now, and I—” He rested his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his wrapped hands. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t get why you lied about not having a girlfriend. ‘No one special’ my ass. You scared she won’t like the family or what?” Quan asked with a sneer.

Michael resisted the urge to tear his hair out. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“The fuck, Michael.” Quan set his bowl on the coffee table next to the beer and grabbed his jacket. “I’ll leave, then.” He stalked to the door and grabbed the knob.

“Today was crappy, okay?” He began yanking the boxing wraps from his fists. “All my days are crap days, but today was worse. I thought my mom was dead. When I got there, she was stooped over in her chair, and it didn’t look like she was breathing. I lost my shit.”

Quan turned around, worry lining his face. “Is she okay? Why didn’t I hear about this earlier? Was it like the other two times when you found her in the bathroom? Is she in the hospital right now?”

One of the wraps came off, and Michael switched to his other hand, reliving the fear and the relief and the embarrassment. “She’s fine. She just fell asleep. When I went crazy, she woke up and yelled at me.”

Quan’s expression went from relieved to amused. “You’re such a momma’s boy, you know that?”

“Like you aren’t.”

“You should tell my mom that. Maybe she’ll stop being so mean.”

Michael rolled his eyes as he coiled his boxing wraps back up. “After that, someone came looking for my dad. They were trying to serve him. Not sure if it was the same person from before, or the IRS, or someone new. It’s always fun seeing people’s faces when I tell them yeah, I’m his son. I can see them sizing me up and making assumptions. And then when I tell them I have no idea where my dad is or if he’s even alive, I get the doubt or the pity. My mom spent the rest of the day repeating old stories about how fucked up he is.”

“You’re the only one she tells, you know. She won’t even talk to my mom about that stuff, and they’re like this.” Quan crossed two fingers. “You just gotta let her do it.”

“Yeah, I know.” He understood it was good for his mom to talk about it, and most times, he handled it pretty well. But lately, it had gotten harder for him. Because he was a selfish asshole.

Like father, like son.

He was tempted to take Stella up on her offer even though his gut told him he should say no. She would be better off spending her time with tech moguls and Nobel laureates—people who were actually good matches for her and could afford to be with her even when she wasn’t paying them.

Not like Michael. He would give almost anything to take the money out of their equation, but the bills didn’t stop, so he couldn’t, either.

“You want me to go, or you want me to stay?” Quan asked from where he stood in front of the door.

Michael took two beers out of the cardboard container, popped the top off one using the other, and set the open bottle on the coffee table. “Stay.”

Quan snatched the bottle on his way over and sat down next to Michael on the couch. After taking a deep swallow, he traded the beer for the noodles and took up where he’d left off, only not as loud now.

Michael popped the top off his own bottle with the edge of the table, turned on the TV, and drank as he absently flipped through the channels.

“So, about your girl . . .” Quan said. “How long you been seeing her?”

Michael took a long drag from his bottle. He needed to be buzzed if he was going to talk about this. “Stella’s not really ‘my girl.’ It’s only been a few weeks.”