Chapter Eleven: The Price of Rescue
668 Words
Owen stared at the spreadsheet like it personally insulted him.
Column after column of useless, mind-numbing numbers, some intern’s idea of "good work," each cell formatted wrong, each formula broken, like a math crime scene no one cared enough to fix.
He clicked his mouse harder than necessary, jaw tight.
He hated this place.
He hated these people.
He hated pretending he gave a s**t.
---
The phone buzzed against the desk.
Owen glanced down.
Ryan.
He considered ignoring it.
Let it ring out.
Let voicemail handle the guilt he didn’t want to feel today.
But something — some stupid old loyalty muscle he hadn’t managed to amputate yet — made him pick up.
He answered with a grunt.
“Dad,” Ryan said, too casual, too practiced. “Hey, uh, you got a second?”
Owen leaned back in his chair, already regretting this.
“What do you want, Ryan.”
No question mark.
Just a statement of fact.
---
Ryan coughed awkwardly.
“So, uh… my rent’s due. Got a little short this month. Thought maybe you could help me out? Just until Friday. I get paid Friday.”
Owen stared out the tiny, grimy office window at the gray, depressing skyline.
He could picture Ryan perfectly:
Slouched. Scratching at the back of his neck. Voice all falsely casual like it wasn’t the hundredth time.
Owen’s throat went tight, bitter heat pooling in his gut.
“No,” he said flatly.
Ryan stammered.
“But— it’s just a little, I swear. Like two hundred. It’s not like I’m—”
“No.”
Harder this time. Final.
Silence.
For a second, Owen thought Ryan might actually apologize.
Instead, his son sighed heavily — the dramatic kind of sigh meant to pin guilt like a knife in your ribs — and hung up without another word.
Owen stared at the screen flashing CALL ENDED and set the phone down slowly.
Good.
One less hand in his pocket.
---
By the time he pulled into the driveway that evening, Owen’s shoulders ached from tension.
He killed the engine, sat there for a second, breathing deep, letting the illusion of quiet sink into his bones.
Home.
No stupid people. No guilt trips. No f*****g spreadsheets.
Just—
The door swung open before he even reached it.
Leia stood in the doorway, beaming.
“Guess who called me today!” she said brightly, like announcing a lottery win.
Owen froze mid-step.
He already knew.
Somewhere deep in his gut, he already f*****g knew.
---
She dragged him inside by the hand like an excited child.
“Ryan called!” Leia said, buzzing. “Poor thing. He sounded so stressed. Apparently he’s a little short on rent and didn’t know what to do—”
Owen’s jaw tightened.
Leia didn’t notice.
“He said he tried you but couldn’t get through,” she added, completely missing the twitch in Owen’s eye. “So of course I sent him the money! What else could I do?”
She beamed at him, proud, expecting gratitude. Approval. A pat on the head.
Owen stared at her.
At her flushed, slightly too-pale cheeks.
At the way she swayed slightly even standing still.
At the way her hands trembled just a little when she pushed the coffee toward him.
“Of course you did,” he murmured.
Leia launched into a cheerful recap of the conversation, chattering about how Ryan promised to pay her back. how sweet he sounded, how he’s really "trying," how she’s so proud of him for "asking for help instead of sinking on his own."
Owen stood there, coffee in hand, listening to words that barely reached him.
As Leia rambled on, her voice slowly fading into background noise, Owen’s mind wandered.
He watched her.
Really watched her.
The paleness.
The sheen of sweat across her forehead.
The way she blinked too slowly, like her body was struggling to keep up with her thoughts.
He smiled to himself, cold and quiet.
- Writer
