I don’t blink as I take it in.
“I know you’re a lot like my brother. But you’re still my son. You have all the best parts of Lily—thank God for that. But there’s a chance you could have the worst parts of me.”
I open my mouth, but everything I’d say next to appease him would be a lie.
“You know it, too,” he says. “If you didn’t think there was a chance, then you wouldn’t be as careful around alcohol.”
A chill bites my exposed skin, maybe by the weather or his words. I drop my shoulders beneath the hot water, and I listen intently as he keeps going.
“The thing about addiction is that it changes you,” he tells me. “You don’t care about the people you love. All compassion and kindness dissolve in the face of your own wants and needs.”
He extends an arm in the freezing air to point towards where Ryke disappeared. “I was that person lying to my brother. To my family. To your mom, a woman who has half my soul. That’s how bad it gets. And when we confronted you at the summer camp, all I could see was myself.”
My stomach knots.
“I wish I handled it differently,” he says. “In hindsight, I should’ve given you more time to speak, but if I never questioned you, I would’ve hated myself every goddamn day. Because I was raised by a father who didn’t give a shit where I was. And your mom was raised by parents who couldn’t care less about her.”
He sits forward. Closer to me. “The moment I held you in my arms, I vowed to always care. In my world, that means questioning you when I sense something’s wrong. Even if I turn out to be the jerk in the end.”
I stay completely still.
My dad has always been candid with me, but this is different. How he’s speaking—it feels like he’s reaching to a place he rarely touches and he’s splitting himself open.
He’s fallible. Imperfect. He’s been telling me that since I was little, but my dad had always been a superhero in my eyes.
He’s so human. It hurts.
“Me and your mom, your aunts and uncles—in almost every circumstance, we wouldn’t trust the media over your word. But security’s intel about your NDAs and the ‘mystery girl’ that we wouldn’t approve of—it aligned with the media. Something wasn’t adding up. We thought it could be anything, not just the rumor. You could’ve been drinking or…” He takes a giant breath.
I was lying about Farrow.
I take fault for that.
“Interrogating each other,” he tells me, “it’s how we deal with lies. Your aunts and uncles have done it to me, and I’ve done it to them.” He pauses. “We were all worried you and Jane were in trouble…and I just needed…” He turns his head away, but I catch sight of his pained face. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright.” A lump lodges in my throat, and a question gnaws at me. I ask as carefully as I can, “What would your dad have done if he were in your position?”
He drops his head.
“You don’t have to answer—”
“I can. Easily.” His jaw sets sharp. “The Jonathan Hale damage control handbook. First, he takes away your trust fund. Then he conducts a meeting where he lists all the steps you have to follow to rebuild your image. Mainly for the sake of the family companies. The trust fund is collateral.”
“Fuck.”
“He’s not done,” my dad says. “You’re broke now. That is, until you complete those necessary steps. One of which, you’re getting married. In his timeframe. And definitely not to your bodyguard. But at least in Jonathan’s handbook, he talks to you face-to-face. You pick up the Calloway handbook, Lily’s parents, and they’ll just send the lawyers to deal with you.”
I stare haunted. “Something like this happened to you and Mom?”
His face says yes. “I love you more than you’ll ever realize, and I hope one day, you can see that our reactions at the camp were out of fear and love. Nothing else.”
I’m starting to see now.
Before, I couldn’t comprehend why and how my parents could doubt me, but he just gave me their viewpoint. I wanted automatic loyalty, but my dad cared enough to question me. They all fucking did. They took the chance of being wrong and dealing with this fallout because if they’d been right and did nothing…
I could be drowning in alcohol. I could be hurt and floundering alone. I could be silently screaming for support and no one’s there to answer the call.
So I get it.
I wish that doomsday could’ve been avoided altogether, but if it had to happen, at least I have parents that love me enough to be there for me.
I nod stiffly. “About Hale Co….” We haven’t talked about the billion-dollar baby product company, built by my great-grandfather. The rumor about me and Jane doesn’t exactly help sell bottles and diapers.
Hale Co. stocks dropped, and I’m sure it’s made my dad’s job as the CEO even harder.
He frowns. “You think I care about the company? You could drive my business into the ground, bud, and as long as you’re breathing and alive and happy, I wouldn’t care.”
I nod again. Thinking about everything he’s said. Forgiveness isn’t that hard for me—maybe it even comes too easily—but when faced with love or a pointless grudge, I’m going to accept love.
Once I find the words, I tell him, “I wouldn’t trade you for any other dad. No bullshit.” I figure he’ll think I’m tiptoeing around him because he’s in a bad place. I kind of am, but I still mean what I say.
He usually has a response for everything, but he grimaces in thought. Maybe he can tell I’m overly praising him.
I run my hand across a hot tub jet. “How’s mom?” I still regret snapping at my mom at the camp. I’ve never yelled at her before, and it may seem like a stupid comparison, but I feel like I kicked her.
“She’s sad,” my dad says, “but I’ve seen her sadder.”
Great.
He gives me this weird look that’s been forming for a while. Like I’ve floated into outer space halfway through our conversation.
“What?”
“You’re worried about us, and we’re the people that hurt you. Jesus Christ, it’s strange.”
“You’re my parents—”
“And we fucked up.” He winces and then flashes his iconic half-smile. “Where’s the condemnation and the tantrum and the I hate you so much, Mom and Dad, huh?”
He wanted me to put up a fight and knock him down at least once. I actually think there’s a part of him that felt like he deserved it—and fuck that. “I guess I’d just rather love you than hate you. Sorry,” I say with edge that matches his.
His face scrunches. “When’s the last time you’ve cried?”
I almost shake my head. “Why are you asking that?”
“Concern. I told you it’s okay to cry growing up, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, you did. All the time.”
He would say, you can cry, bud. But I must’ve been thirteen the last time I really cried. Someone kept stuffing notes in my locker like your mom sucks a lot of dick with penis doodles. There I was, sobbing into my pillow, and my little brother knocked on my bedroom door. Wanting me to read him a fantasy book.