Page 47 of John + Siena: The Complete Duet

He couldn’t be just Johnathan Marcello to somebody once they knew his little secret—he then became Johnathan who was bipolar.

That was every reason why he made sure to get up when it was still early enough for the sun to be down. Then, he wouldn’t have to explain to a woman he had just spent the night with—but fuck, actually liked, too—why the first thing he had to do was slam back a cocktail of medications.

He couldn’t be just John to Siena then.

He would have to be John and his bipolar.

It was selfish, sure.

Part of his therapy was being honest, and open about his disorder. Especially when it came to people he got involved with on an emotional level. Explaining his disorder and opening up to them was supposed to be healthy, and erase the stigma.

He often felt like it did the complete opposite.

Grabbing a glass out of the open shelf above the sink, John half-filled it with water. He scooped the pills up all at once, and tossed them back. A mouthful of water, and the pills were down. Some of them left a bitter taste behind if he let them linger too long on his tongue, so he just downed the bastards as fast as he could.

Breakfast, he told himself, looking around.

Food was also needed for some of the meds. They didn’t mess with his stomach as much when he chased the pills with a meal, or even toast.

John didn’t think Siena would mind waking up to breakfast, considering she had asked him to stay. Breakfast was one of the only damn things he could cook particularly well, too. It was a win-win all the way around the board.

He was still searching through the cupboards to find the things he needed to make pancakes when his cell phone rang.

Shit.

John damn near leaped over the table to grab his cell phone, and answer the call. It was still too early to be waking somebody else up because of his nonsense.

He put the phone to his ear with a, “Yeah, John here.”

“Son, where are you?”

John stiffened at his father’s voice, and the question. “What do you need?”

“Nice deflection, but I didn’t miss it.”

“I’m out.”

“It’s five in the damn morning.”

John tried to keep his tone low and calm while he spoke. “I’m aware of what time it is, Dad. What do you need?”

“Somebody went over to your place this morning to grab you, but you weren’t there. I need you to come to Amityville now.”

“To your place, or the boss’s?”

“Dante’s.”

Something was wrong. Nobody got called to the boss’s home at this early in the morning unless something had happened.

“Dad—”

“I’ll explain it when you get here,” Lucian said. “I think it would be better to do face to face, all things considered.”

Hesitation and concern slipped down John’s ramrod-straight spine. He didn’t like what he was hearing, or how defensive it made him feel. Like he couldn’t be trusted or something with whatever his father had to say.

It wouldn’t be the first time Lucian withheld things from John simply because he thought it was the better option. Sometimes, he understood why his father did it. Either way, every time it left him feeling the same thing.

Like his father didn’t believe in him.