still ill • michael gray

Chapter 2

After Michael left, I noticed a small slip of paper underneath one of the flowerpots. It ended up being his business card with his home address written on the back. On the front it reads:

Shelby Company Ltd.
Michael Gray
Chief Accountant

And on the back:

In case you ever want to bother me

Tonight I'm having the first dinner with my parents since they got back. They've been giving me suspicious looks for the past three hours, I know either Sylvie or the concierge snitched on me. I pick at my potatoes cautiously.

Finally my father clears his throat and I await my sentencing. "I heard you had a young man come visit the other night."

I avoid eye contact when I answer him, "You should know, I sent him away promptly."

I know it was a wrong move not to look him in the eyes, and I can almost guess what he's going to say next, "Beatrice Alene Robertson, you look me in the eyes when I'm speaking to you. Have some manners," Slowly I drag my eyes up to stare into his, as much as I hate to admit, they're the same as mine. A fiery light brown. "I was told when you received this young man, you were... indecent."

"Not intentionally," I answer, "his arrival disturbed me while I was in the bath. I was angry and I acted rashly, in all fairness, I didn't know it was him."

"And who did you think it was that made you think it was acceptable to receive them in the way you did? You do realize what kind of shame you could've brought on this family if that had been someone happy to tell the press that Beatrice Robertson received them in our foyer half naked?"

I don't break eye contact and purse my lips, "I do, and I apologize for acting inappropriately."

"Who was this young man?" My mom now interrogates.

Fearfully I shift my gaze to her, "Just a boy I met, I'm not at all interested in him, there's nothing going on there."

"From what I heard, you seemed quite fond of him."

"I was only being friendly when I kicked him out of the house."

She presses on, "I also heard his name, Michael Gray."

Dad now chimes back into the conversation, "And I did some research on him. Were you aware that he smuggles alcohol from Britain?"

"He's an accountant for his family's business, whatever you heard about him simply isn't true—"

"His family's business is smuggling Beatrice! I also heard that he works with those awful Italian gangs!"

I clench my jaw, "And so what if he does? I sent him away and I don't ever plan to consort with him again."

"And that's a good thing," Father growls, "it would be an awful thing for you to tear down everything I've built for this family for that man."

"Oh please," I'm done being polite and get up from the table quickly, "If I wanted to tear everything down I wouldn't need a man to do it."

"You sit down right now," he commands in a dangerously low tone. "You sit down or I'll cut you off, you go find your own house, go make your own money. I refuse to support someone so blatantly disrespectful."

"You wouldn't dare," I sit back down, "you're bluffing because you need me. I'm your little bargaining chip. You make one small offer to someone of possibly getting an exchange with me and they're in your pocket. As much as you hate to admit it Father, you need me. That's why the thought of me going off the market and no longer being single is so horrifying. You know that I can't tear down what you've achieved, whatever it is, by choosing to be with some alcohol importer, you have my brother to carry to carry on your legacy. Go ahead and just disown me once I'm married, see if I care. If I'm lucky I might just find someone richer than you," I finish my rant with my chest heaving.