You Can Let It Go [ZARRY]

Forty Four

Harry:

Cesar was put in charge of ushering the party guests off the property.

I suppose I could’ve let them stay and
celebrate Halloween, but I wanted a clean slate.

They could take their engagement presents and go home.

Dale pushed my father’s wheelchair through the house, Dad smiling tightly and waving at departing guests as if the whole thing were a practical joke.

Jeff Azoff tagged along with us, looking scared under his pasty white vampire
makeup.

I led the procession to the library, and once inside, my father’s repressed wrath spewed out.

I shut the door and he stabbed the air with his finger at me.

“You. . .” Spittle stained his upper lip. “The entire world was in that backyard. Listening to you. . .” he sputtered with rage.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t have you thrown out of here!”

“I’ll give you a reason,” I said as I went to the safe.

“I’m your last fucking hope for redemption. That’s a reason.”

I’d heard the phrase step into your power, but I never understood what it meant until that night.

Being with Zayn, kissing him, touching him, sleeping with him. . .steppingstones to this feeling, this surge of warm, perfect emotion—love for him and for myself.

I let it flow.

Let it course through my veins, through every cell of my body, pumped by a heart that was filled with him.

With no remnants of cold or fear or shame hanging off of me, I moved calmly to retrieve the briefcase. Everything felt easier.

I could breathe.

Wait for me, Zayn, I sent into the ether.

Wherever you are,

please, wait for me. . .

I set the suitcase on the table and clicked open the latches.

“Under Jeff’s direction,” I began, “Styles Pharma has taken a product that was meant to relieve the worst pain for terminal cancer patients and has turned it into a cash cow. The result is we helped ruin and destroy countless families and communities.”

Jeff snorted indelicately and tapped his fingertips together. “Desmond, please. We’ve discussed this ad infinitum, ad nauseam. In no way are we responsible for those who abused our product.”

“Yeah, we’ve heard that one before,” I said, calmly rifling through the emails and internal memos until I found the one Sylvia had highlighted and tabbed.

“You also stated that,‘higher dosages mean better profits.’ Oh, and here’s a good one: ‘It’s of little consequence to us if consumers can’t read a warning label. We already have their money.’”

My father, his eyes still hard and flinty, glanced between Jeff and me.

Jeff tittered nervously. “That’s just internal talk. Braggadocio. Doesn’t mean anything.”

“Bullshit,” I said. “That came from a marketing directive that pushed OxyPro even harder in small, rural communities.
You also ignored reports from our own labs about how addictive the opioids are, but I can tell you myself. I’ve been there.”

My father whipped his head to look at me.

“You didn’t know that did you?” I said. “Of course not. I was already drinking in high school to deal with your stellar brand of parenting. Then you sent me to Alaska, where I was beaten, shocked, and ground down to nothing. When I came back, OxyPro was everywhere and I dove in headfirst. I only pulled myself out so Marcy wouldn’t have to deal with you alone, because after Alaska, being alive wasn’t much incentive.”