"It does make a difference. A big one," I said through gritted teeth.
Raymond, clearly enjoying the tension, chuckled. "You're the one with the problem, Boyce, not her.
I was in no mood to argue with him.
He continued, "I get it—you're sick of taking care of Adelaide, so you're looking for an excuse to bail, right?
"She doesn't like me, but I could take over for you. Or is it that you're worried I'll screw things up?
"I mean, come on, you look like you're blaming me for her condition."
I clenched my fists, anger welling up inside.
Adelaide's cancer was terminal, but Raymond had played a part in her rapid decline.
After Adelaide's surgery, she was stable—until Raymond, feverish with the flu, decided to visit my home while I was out of town.
Adelaide, already frail, caught the flu from him, and by that evening, she was in the ICU.
Her health spiraled from there.
"What? Cat got your tongue? Did I hit a nerve?" Raymond sneered.
"Yedda, I've seen guys like him before—big talk, no action. He says he won't do the photoshoot, but look at him, already here sulking.