“Please stay for breakfast. I’ll drop you home after that.”
She nodded against my shoulder. We stood there for another minute. Then she pulled back and looked at me once, and walked back up to the house.
After breakfast I dropped Margaux to her aunt’s place a few towns over. When I returned to the estate, the whole house had an eerie calmness to it.
I poured myself some coffee and went to the patio.
The ocean was bright and calm, in complete contrast with my state of mind. I sat in one of the chairs and looked at it and thought about August. Maybe she was sitting in her van somewhere in Millhaven, going through the motions of a Saturday market, arranging flowers lightest to darkest, hating me with every ounce of her existence.
She had heard me call her a nobody.
She had packed her bags in the middle of the night and walked out of this house alone, and she had been so careful about it — the made bed, the notes, the back stairs — because she was August and she did not want to inconvenience anyone even when she was the one who was broken.
I deserved every second of how I felt right now.
The patio door opened behind me.
Dad came out with his coffee and looked at me and looked at the empty chair next to mine.
“May I?”
“Of course.”
He sat down and looked at the ocean. He was quiet for a while, which was one of the things I had always valued about my father — he had never been someone who rushed straight to the point when he could sit with you first.
“You shouldn’t have shouted at Margaux,” he said. “In front of us.”
“I know. I apologized.”
“Good.” He nodded. He sipped his coffee. “Did you end it?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not surprised.” He looked at the water. “Your mother and I saw it coming. We hoped it would come sooner than it did.” He paused. “We were worried it would come so late that Margaux would be truly broken.” Another pause. “And that you would lose August forever.”
I looked at him.
He was watching the ocean, his coffee in both hands, perfectly relaxed.
“We all know you love her, Fletcher,” he said. “We have all known for a very long time. It’s in everything about you when she’s in the room. It’s in how you listen when she talks and how you watch the door when she’s not back yet and how you laugh when she laughs, three seconds later, like an echo.” He turned to look at me. “You love that girl. Every atom of you does. What I don’t understand is why you’re punishing yourself for it.”
I looked at my coffee.
“Something happened,” Dad said. “During that acquisition. The big one, six years ago. I’ve tried to ask you about it. You’ve always changed the subject. Every time.” He set his mug downon the armrest. “I’m not changing the subject today. What happened?”
The ocean kept going. A bird went across the sky.
“I killed someone,” I said.
Dad was quiet.
“Not directly.” I kept looking at the water. “The acquisition. I was advised against the acquisition before we closed. The projections said it was viable but two of the senior partners told me it was too fast, that we needed another quarter to assess the impact on the employees. I overruled them. I wanted the deal. I wanted it because I wanted you to be proud of me. I wanted you to put your hand on my shoulder and saythat’s my sonand I got that. You did that. And three days later the company went under and three hundred and twelve people lost their jobs.” I stopped. I started again. “Six months after the deal closed, a journalist called me. She told me about a man. Paul Greer. He had been with the company for fifteen years. He had a wife and three kids and a mortgage and no savings because his pension had been absorbed into the acquisition. He spent two months trying to find work. He didn’t find any. And then he took his life.”
Dad said nothing.
“I never told you,” I said. “I never told anyone. Because I knew what you would say and I knew you would be able to sleep after you said it and I have not been able to sleep for six years.”
I finally looked at him.
