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Did he just break up with me?
Chapter Five
Clifton
I dial Anton’s number - not even wanting to think about him as dad - as anger and curiosity churn in my stomach. I'm not sure why he sent Emma to my place to talk to me, but I want him to know that she's never going to change my mind or make me into the son he’s always wanted.
Heck, if he wants the perfect child, maybe he should just adopt her. Can people adopt adults? Regardless, she’s everything he’s ever wanted in a child. She’d make him proud.
“Clifton, what a surprise,” he answers, not sounding surprised or happy to hear from me. Not a shock given our conversation earlier in the day. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” As he says the words, I sense he’d rather be lit on fire than talk to me.
Well, that makes two of us.
“Don't play dumb, Anton. Why did you send Emma here?” I can't help but wonder if he's setting me up, trying to get her to seduce me so that he has more ammunition to hold over my head in the future. I don't doubt he can feel the control he has over me slipping, and, of course, he's going to do everything he can to dig those claws in deeper.
“I didn’t send Emma over there.” He sounds genuinely confused, and my brow furrows as I wonder if this is all an elaborate game of some kind. But what does he stand to gain? He never does anything unless he's going to get something out of it.
“She showed up at my door, angry about our confrontation today.” I can't think of a more diplomatic way to say that we’d fought.
I also can't help but think about how her lips felt against mine. I’d stolen a kiss from her and now I can’t get that innocent peck off my mind. I’ve been kissed deeply, passionately by beautiful women, but none of them made an impression on me like her kiss and subsequent how dare you as if she hadn’t been begging me to kiss her with her eyes.
Did she think I wouldn't notice?
The pause on the other end of the line has dragged on for far too long. He better not have had a heart attack or something. “Are you still there?”
“I am. I didn't send Emma to your penthouse. If she went, she did so on her own volition, and I apologize for that unfortunate encounter.” Something in my father's words chills the blood in my veins. Why is he continuing to be so polite? My father never apologizes, even when he is in the wrong. Something about this moment is significant, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.
I can't help but wonder if calling him was a mistake.
But then again, I know this man and this could all just be another elaborate hoax. He's going to try to make me believe whatever it is he wants me to believe, to further his own ends and plans. I shouldn't have called.
I frown, still experiencing a mix of disbelief and suspicion blending like a margherita in my gut. I wonder if we should discuss the offer that he'd made. If there is any way to wiggle out from under his thumb of oppression, I’d do so.
“Look, Dad, I know she's like the daughter you never had, and I’m the son who is just a disappointment. But there’s no reason to bullshit about this. I’m just asking you not to send her to my place anymore.” I know that setting boundaries with my father is a useless endeavor. He's bound to violate it the second he sees fit. But something about saying my piece does make me feel better. Maybe because I know how furious it makes him when I push back against his awful behavior.
“I’m sorry that that's how you see things.” Once again he sounds unflappable and calm. That one sentence is all the warning I need to know that he will never change.
“The only thing keeping me from telling you to shove that offer up your ass is the threat of jail time.” I need him to know that his stranglehold on me will be severed one day. I am going to shape up, stay out of trouble, and bide my time until I can escape.
“That's nice. When you come up to our floor tomorrow, you'll be the third door on the right.” With those words, he hangs up the phone.
I want, more than anything, to be free of him, but I need to hunker down with my nose to the grindstone for a while as I make my plan.
I relax back on my couch, tucking my bent arm behind my head. Holding my phone up in my other hand, I open the photo gallery. In seconds I’m met with images of us.
Julia’s sleek black hair shines in the sunlight, and I can still smell the coconut shampoo she used. I can see her wide smile and the selfies she'd snapped of us while out hiking. I stop on one of my favorite photos, studying the familiar landscape of her beautiful face with the waterfall practically blending into the background because she was the focal point. I gaze into her light brown eyes, wondering who she really is, how she could leave so easily, and what made her do something so cruel. She knew who my rival was. We’d had conversations about him and what I went through. When she cheated with him, she made a choice. A choice to damage me in the worst way possible. Why did she want to destroy me?
What had I done to make her hate me so much?
This isn't the first time I worked down this line of thinking. But now I don’t feel that paralyzing, agonizing pain as I think about her actions and the repercussions of them.
In every single one of these photos, she's smiling at me. We look so happy, so in love, but it was all a lie. I don’t know when it became a lie, or if it started as one, but I know that I’m not the same man I was when these photos were taken. Sometimes I’m still shocked she cheated on me, like my brain is actively denying the truth - not because I think I’m amazing or anything - just that I couldn’t do an enemy that dirty, much less someone I claimed to love.
I think about her and my rival, any secrets she might be sharing with him, and those thoughts chew the lining of my gut like battery acid.
But as I freeze, no longer swiping through the photos, I stop on one. A memory of us in a hammock in her backyard. I remember climbing in there together, sharing a laugh and a kiss before being dumped out as our weight unbalanced the material.
I hold my thumb on the screen, waiting for the option to delete. And I tap the button. The photo disappears, leaving one less reminder of her, one less bit of proof that we’d shared happy times together. I don’t want to miss her anymore; I want to be free of the pain and memories.
