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“Your mama and I only want what is best for you.”
“And you have always given me everything. I'll forever be grateful for the love you have shown me.” I reply.
He smiles. “Well, I guess we had better get going. Call us if you need anything.”
I walk them out to their car and hold the door open as they climb into the back. The driver pulls away. I breathe a sigh of relief.
I love them deeply, but I struggle to hear them speak badly of my father.
Glancing at my watch, I note the time and think about the funeral.
I spend most of the morning in the gym, trying to force the tension out of my body, but it doesn't work. Kalo calls and tries to convince me to join him for lunch, but I decline.
In the afternoon, I find myself in the atrium, sitting behind my grand piano with my fingers spread across the keys. I have not started playing yet; I'm struggling to press my fingers down to start. Things seem too far away from me, confusing and distant.
Finally, I press my fingers into the key and a melody drifts into the air, reaching into the high ceilings of the room. I feel it drift through me, and I close my eyes. My fingers know their way between the notes, and I continue to play, getting lost in the methodical journey of each chord.
By the time evening arrives, I feel even worse. The funeral starts in thirty minutes in New York, and I'm pacing the halls of my mansion.
Frustration increases and I call out to my housekeeper.
“Have Mr. Lee bring the car around. I'm going out.”
“Yes, sir.”
When Mr. Lee arrives, I open his door and tell him I'lldrive myself.
I park out of sight, around the corner from a bar in the city.
Inside, the music is too loud and there are too many people. It is the perfect place for me to get lost, to distract myself from thinking about my father’s funeral and how I can't be there.
I have only been here once, and I chose it specifically so that I would not bump into anyone I know. I order two shots of vodka and a drink at the bar. I down both shots right away, and before the bartender leaves, I tap the counter to order two more.
He pours them without question, which I like.
Within an hour of arriving, I'm more drunk than I have been in a very long time.
To my annoyance, it has not dampened the thoughts of New York and the funeral.
I sway slightly when I walk back from the bathroom and try to spot the bartender to order another drink. I have to kill this havoc inside my mind.
“What are you, half-breed?” A slurry voice reached me.
I look up at the man standing in front of me with a sneer on his lips.
He is obviously very drunk and doesn't know who I am, or he would not dare to even talk to me, never mind insulting my blood.
“Walk away,” I demand.
“Why do half-breeds not have a spine?”
I take a breath; this is not worth it.
He grabs the collar of my shirt, trying to pull me toward him, but I don’t even budge.
He reaches up with his fist, swinging it toward my face. I see it coming. I could block it easily, but suddenly, I wanted to feel the sting of his knuckles against my jaw.
His fist connects, and he shouts in pain as I hear his knuckles crack.
