“So. What’s the favor?”
He sat on the wrought-iron chair across from me, putting his phone on the table.
Hi, son. How are you, Beck?
Too much to ask, I supposed.
Might as well rip off the band-aid.
“I’m buying O’Malley’s bar. I don’t actually need any money?—”
“Good. Because if you think I’m funding your midlife crisis at thirty, pouring beers for locals who peaked in high school, you’re out of your mind.”
So far, it was going about as expected.
“Mr. and Mrs. O’Malley went down to Delray Beach to see if they liked the area for a second place. They ended up finding one already, a great deal, but if I wait to secure a loan they’ll likely lose it. I just need some upfront cash to hold it for them while I get the paperwork in order.”
He blinked. No reaction.
I told him how much I needed. Still, no reaction.
He might not have been a great father, but he was one hell of a businessman. And though I never wanted to go into the bottling business, a fact that my father would never get over, it wasn’t for a lack of respect for what he’d built. And I was very much having a conversation with the business owner and not my father right now.
Last thing I was gonna do, though, was flinch. He hated weakness more than my life decisions. So instead, I waited with him. Stared back.
“A near-perfect SAT,” he said finally. “And you’re going to own a bar?”
It wasn’t his words, but the derisive tone, that made me crack.
“Yeah, a bar. You own a wine bottling business. We’ll both make money from the same industry,” I said, not holding back my sarcasm. “Ironic, huh?”
“I could point out they are not the same industry. And that being the owner of a local pub and distributing to over a hundred high-end vineyards in upstate New York are, in fact, worlds apart. But you know that already, Beck. You’re a smart kid.”
Deep breaths. Remember the goal.
“I am not a kid, Dad. But you know that already, too. And yeah, they’re worlds apart, but this”—I waved my hand toward the inground pool, its too-large poolhouse and all of the amenities one might need to host a perfect party at your perfect house—“has never been my world. Only yours. And Mom’s. Some parents might be happy they became so successful and also managed not to raise a stuck-up prick.”
His brows raised.
“Only throwing shade to some of your friends’ kids. Not you,” I clarified.
“Well,” he said. “That’s a relief.”
He sat back, coffee in hand, and considered my request.
There was a fifty-fifty chance he’d do it. Dad had the money on hand and knew I was good for it. But giving it to me would, at least in part, go against his vow not to “fund my stupidity” as he so often put it. Bartender. Bar owner. Guess it didn’t matter.
Even if a part of me, a tiny little part of me, wished it did.
He sipped his coffee again, then exhaled slowly like the decision was costing him something more than money.
“You’ll pay me back,” he said finally. “And not a cent goes to a sound system, neon sign, or whatever nonsense you think bars need these days.”
That was as close to a yes as I’d get.
I nodded. “Done.”
He studied me for a moment. “This isn’t just about a bar, is it?”
