I can’t help but get defensive when he does this. It’s not like it’s rare that this happens either. Lately, it seems like at least once a month, he drops in and examines my place like some kind of disgruntled housekeeper come to heap shame on someone for not keeping it tidy enough.
“Well, I wasn’t even up when you barged in, Dad, so I’d say I’ve accomplished a few things already today,” I snap back, all the while smiling because I really don’t need to get into an argument with my father not a half hour after waking up.
More wincing is followed by him silently taking a drink of water while I wait for the inevitable discussion that’s going to occur. I know my father too well to believe he’s going to be able to leave here without giving me the lecture about how it’s time for me to grow up and settle down.
At twenty-three.
It’s the height of hypocrisy too, if you ask me. I’ve heard the stories of how legendary his twenties were working at Club X and living a life others could only dream about. Money, women, and all the alcohol he could want was his everyday life.
Yet I’m expected to be settled down into a responsible life at my age.
“Do you have any job prospects, Cade? It’s been a year since you graduated from college. You have a degree, you’re a smart guy, and I have to think there are hundreds of companies that would love to have you work for them.”
As he speaks, I anticipate every word that will come out of his mouth next. I’ve heard this speech so many times, I could give it to myself. That would actually be better. It would cut out the middle man and make having to do this with him a thing of the past.
That wouldn’t work for the great Stefan March, though. No, he enjoys coming over here on his monthly tour of my house, sighing disapprovingly as he scans the rooms and mentally ticks off all my household failures, and then giving me his same old dissertation on how I should be working at a job he would have never considered at my age and likely wouldn’t even now.
“Dad, you know the answer, so why do you ask the question? I haven’t found what I want to do yet. I have time. It’s not like being twenty-three and unsure of my future makes me a lost cause. I have money, so I’m not going to be homeless anytime soon. Don’t worry. I got this.”
My father narrows his eyes like he can’t believe what I’m saying. “You got what, Cade?”
I spread my arms out and smile. “This. Life.”
“You’ve got a condo because of your trust fund your mother and I set up. You’ve got that car of yours because of that same trust fund. Don’t you think it’s time to make your own way in life?”
“I am. I’m just not doing it the way you would prescribe for me.”
He acts like that trust fund isn’t exactly like the money he got from his father all those years ago that allowed him and his brothers to start up Club X. Fuck, he’s such a hypocrite!
Taking a step forward, he lets out another frustrated sigh and sets his water bottle on the island that separates us. “Cade, you have the very skills necessary to take over the club. You’d be perfect. I’m not going to be running it forever, and it’s turnkey. Literally, you’d walk in and it would set you up for life. Then you could do whatever you want with it. Change it to be exactly what you want it to be. It’s there for the taking.”
And there’s the pitch that comes right near the end of every one of these monthly discussions. Now it’s my turn to say that’s not what I want to do and his turn to get angry, throw his hands up in the air, and storm out.
At least all of this is predictable. I have to give him that.
“Dad, I don’t want to manage a club or own a club or do anything with your club. It’s not who I am.”
Right on cue, disappointment fills his dark eyes and he lowers his head to look at the floor. “Your mother and I always thought we were doing right by you when we set up that trust fund to begin paying out when you were twenty-one. We wanted to make sure we took care of the future because we love you, son.”
He stops for a moment and looks up at me with anguish written all over his face. This isn’t how our usual talks go. Why isn’t he raging like always? This is when he’s supposed to list all the ways I should be acting like an adult and how I should have some job that he approves of by now.
But that doesn’t seem to be happening this time. Interesting. My father has changed things up on me.
“We see now we made a mistake, and we intend on rectifying that. From this year on, the payments won’t occur unless you have a job. We don’t care if it’s flipping burgers or delivering pizzas. A job is a job, and as long as you’re doing an honest day’s work and you’re happy doing it, we’ll be happy for you.”
I stand there in my kitchen staring at him, stunned at what he’s just said. “You’re taking my trust fund away from me?”
“No, Cade. You will, if you don’t get a job. Again, your mother and I don’t care what you choose to do, as long as it’s legal and you earn money doing it. We put no restrictions whatsoever on you. Now, if you want, you can work at the club and this will be solved. I always need bartenders, and since you have no interest in managing the club, maybe you’d like to do a job that’s less work and more fun. It’s entirely up to you.”
Barely able to contain my anger at this blackmail he’s decided to use on me, I snap, “So as long as I work behind the bar serving those goddamned drunks you call customers, you won’t cut me off? Nice, Dad. Hell of a way to treat your only son.”
He takes a sip of water and smiles. He’s won, so why not? “The choice is up to you. You can start whenever you want. Or not. If you want to do something else, do it. If you want to start up a business and make things, do it. If you want to deliver those pizzas or flip those burgers I mentioned before, do it. Just do something, for Christ’s sake, Cade!”
And there’s the anger I’m used to in our lovely talks. At least he didn’t disappoint me with that.
As he’s leaving, I quietly give him what he wants. “I’ll do some bartending at the club starting this week.”
My father doesn’t say a word before walking out of the kitchen. From the other room, I hear him say, “Afternoon, Alex. Your cousin is in there. How are things going?”
Sounding as happy as a clam, Alex answers, “Great, Stefan! Nice seeing you. Have a good one!”
By the time he pokes his head around the wall, it’s all I can do to force myself to say hi. “You just missed a delightful conversation with my father, the wonderful and hypocritical Stefan March.”
A look of pain comes over my cousin’s face. “Was it that day already this month? I thought those talks came later in the month and not so early. So did it go the same as always?”
I shake my head, still amazed at what he pulled on me. “No. Daddy’s got a brand new routine, and it’s utter bullshit.”
Chapter Seven
Cade
Alex waits to hear what I mean by that and finally says, “A brand new routine? What does that mean?”
“Seems I’m not going to get any money this year from my trust if I don’t get a job.”