“I usually ask you that,” he says under his breath, quiet enough that I don’t comment on it.
I try to ignore the tension and punch the button. “You look like yourself today.” I gesture to his hair. “Just rolled out of bed, grabbed the first thing on the floor.” I’m about to joke more, but he’s not smiling or laughing.
His shoulders remain strict. We’re about to cement one of our futures, and Ryke believes neither is good. I don’t know anymore. This elevator doesn’t seem like a ride to hell or to a cage. Somewhere from the beginning to now, I’ve changed.
“Ryke—”
“I tried to be different so I could beat you at this,” he suddenly says. “To help you. And I could barely stomach it.”
“For what it’s worth,” I say, “I’m glad you changed back.”
He nods repeatedly, staring at the floor while we stand side-by-side. The elevator doors have already closed, and we’ve begun to rise. “I need to tell you something,” he breathes. He turns his head to me. “I got tested, at the hospital.”
My brows pull together. “To see if you can donate?”
“Yeah.” He waits a second, struggling to explain himself. “I’m a match.”
I open my mouth, not sure what to say.
“Crazy, right?” he says roughly. “Who would’ve fucking thought that I’d be Dad’s one chance at life?”
“You don’t have to do anything,” I remind him, my stomach at my knees.
Ryke runs his fingers through his hair, not confused or uncertain. “Regardless of what happens today,” he says, “I’ve made a decision about the transplant surgery.”
“Yeah?” I frown. I can’t place what I hope he’ll say. I just want everyone to live, but the cost of my dad living is high.
Then he stares right at me, with that stubborn self-confidence Ryke possesses, and he says, “I’m not doing this for him. I’m fucking doing this for me.” He points at his chest. “Because I can’t live with myself knowing that I could’ve helped him and I did nothing.”
I’m surprised but then I’m not. He’s the most compassionate person I’ve ever met. Without asking, he helped me stay sober for years on end. He became friends with a lonely girl who needed one. He watched over her when no one else did.
He will always be the biggest hero in my world. “I’ll be there,” I tell him. “Every step of the way.”
Relief floods his dark features, no fight between us. “Good,” he says, “because I’m going to be bored shitless in recovery.”
I laugh once, and then I reach out, clasp his hand, pulling him closer for a hug. I pat his back. I’m about to say thanks or maybe you can always back out if you need to. It barely hits me that our dad might be able to watch my kid grow up. Ryke’s too if he has any.
But Ryke draws back, his hand firmly on my shoulder as he says, “It’s a long process, but it’s fucking happening. Sometime after your wedding, I’m thinking.” His lips lift in a fraction of a smile. “When I made this choice, it felt fucking right. So I’m doing it.”
I can’t talk him out of it, he’s saying. Not that I can talk Ryke out of anything. “Should I buy board games? Operation?” I flash a wry smile.
He messes my hair with a full-blown grin, reminding me that I’m the little brother again.
And then the elevator stops. The doors slide open, and our smiles fade. Reality just a foot away. The meeting room down the hall, in sight.
“I’m right behind you,” Ryke tells me.
I take the first step onto the seventy-fifth floor of Hale Co.
This is it.
{ 69 }
LOREN HALE
Ryke and I sit on either end of the long table, seven board members on one side, seven on the other. While passing around sandwiches and coffee, they’ve been going over Hale Co. financial reports, business relations, without mention of the CEO title yet.
They’ve finally reached the end of their laundry list of topics. Focusing on the one that’s haunting me.
Daniel Perth rises from his seat and buttons his suit. “We appreciate how much work you’ve both put in towards heading this company.” He looks to Ryke. “As you’ve come to respect us, so have we to you. You’re multilingual, quick to understand our approaches, and very receptive to new ideas. Your father boasted about you. He said you were too smart for your own good.”
The board members collectively chuckle. Daniel smiles, “That’s a decent compliment from Jonathan Hale. He doesn’t give many.”