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What the fuck?
“Okay, Jules. I just left the house, but I’ll hurry. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she mumbles.
“Jules, do not let him in my office alone.”
“I won’t, sir.”
When she hangs up the call, I press my foot on the pedal, speeding down the freeway to get to the office faster. The good feeling I had when I got into my car is suddenly gone.
By the time I park, I have myself convinced that my father is officially delusional. There’s no way he didn’t hear my statement. He’s here to argue with me, which means I need to prepare for a fight.
Truett Goode doesn’t take losing well. His ego is too large to let him admit defeat, so he won’t go down easily.
As the elevator dings and I walk to the doors of my office, I can hear his voice booming from out here. Opening the door, I shove my shoulders back and hold my head up high.
If he thinks he’s come here today to bully me, he’s wrong.
“I’ll go wherever I damn well please,” he shouts.
“Sir, please wait in the lobby,” Jules says in her sweet voice as she follows him into my office.
“Dad,” I bellow, catching them both off guard. “Stop yelling at my secretary.”
“I’m your father,” he argues. “I won’t wait out here like some regular client.”
Ignoring his outburst, I coolly reply, “I wasn’t aware we had a meeting today.”
“Where the hell have you been?” he says, staring at me as if I’m still sixteen and he still has control over me.
The first thing I notice about my father is that his suit is wrinkled, his cheeks are gaunt, and his hands have a shake to them I pick up on immediately. For a man who was once a revered pastor, broadcast around the world every Sunday, and builder of one of the biggest megachurches in Texas, he fell from very great heights. Now, it’s just sad to look at him. Especially since I know he’s hiding an ankle monitor under those dirt-stained slacks.
“Why don’t you keep your voice down in my office?” I mutter, passing him by. When he enters the office space, I start to close the door behind him and mouth a silentthank youto Jules. She waves me off as I shut myself in with my father.
“Sit down,” I say to my father as I move to the chair behind my desk.
“You got bourbon or something?” he asks.
“This is where I work,” I reply flatly. “I don’t drink at my office.”
He huffs, staring in disgust as he drops into his chair. Seeing him sitting there, I fight the urge to smile. I bet he doesn’t often get to sit inthatchair. He was always the man behind the desk. The one who called the shots, holding the control and making others feel inferior.
My, how the tables have turned.
“What do you want?” I ask, placing my arms on my desk and staring at him without a hint of compassion on my face.
I watch as his molars grind, and he fights some sort of emotion bubbling to the surface. Then his expression changes, and it’s as if the cloak is whisked away. Beneath it is a sad, lonely man staring at his son and wondering what went wrong.
I could ask myself the same thing.
“I need your help,” he says, and when his voice cracks, it takes me by surprise.
Never in my life have I heard my father cry. Not for real, at least. In his sermons, he would perform. Pulling at the heartstrings of his congregation, I have heard him pretend he was so overcome with emotion and vulnerability that he was brought to tears.
I saw right through that charade.
But now…this feels real.
