But he flips me like a switch. A second later, I feel better.
And I’m only disappointed he doesn’t lift my fingers to that rough, stern mouth, hidden behind its halo of dark scruff.
“You have dinner plans? I should run home to Kit for a quick check before the flight tomorrow. If you need food, I’ll take care of it.”
“No, it’s fine, go knock yourself out. I’m having dinner with my dad tonight.”
“You’re ready for that conversation?” His eyes widen. “You’re sure?”
I take a step back, desperate for breathing space. Room for so many conflicted thoughts.
“I said it’s fine. Dad’s my problem, Holden, not yours. I appreciate you setting up the meeting and the plane. I can deal with my father without a babysitter.”
Then I turn my back and walk away.
My back burns the whole time.
I just know his heavy gaze lingers until I disappear down the hall.
The chowder placein Portland we meet at feels downright tacky under the neon lights. Old fishing gear and lobster posters everywhere, like someone wanted to parody their own food.
I’ve squeezed into a cramped booth with an iced tea in front of me and an angry knot in my stomach.
Holden is such a piece of work. The type of work that knocks you flatter than running a marathon.
And meeting Dad, won’t that be—
Well, seeing him occupies that baffling space between bittersweet and hell frozen over.
Bittersweet because he acts like he’s happy to see me. He always wants to catch up, and sometimes I start feeling like he might care about my life. The illusion usually lasts for roughly a half hour before the horns come out.
Then he hits me with his latest tale of woe. He’s the world’s biggest victim, in case I forgot it for five seconds.
Sometimes, he comes sniffing for art connections.Mine,which I guard jealously, even when I have to lie through my teeth.
Also, he’s mydad.
I love him in that messy way you only know when you’ve accepted love will never be perfect—or clearly reciprocated.
I want to think he loves me, too. Deep down, somewhere under the pathological greed and selfishness.
That’s what makes this hell ice-cold.
Because whenever I see him, I’m reminded of what I could become if I’m not careful. Just like I remember why I’ll never be a top priority in his life.
Even when he’s busy playing nice, soft, concerned Dad, I’m somewhere under his real true loves.
Money and alcohol have this man’s heart like a caged bird.
I order a bottle of wine for the table anyway before he shows up and starts pushing for the expensive stuff. Might as well start the evening on a high. I know how it’ll go sooner or later.
Maybe it’s enabling him and an addiction I can’t control.
Who knows.
I hate how much that bottle reminds me of fucking Holden and the wine cellar, and it makes my palms hot and itchy.
Dad appears from nowhere a few minutes later, his greying hair tied up in the oldest man bun ever, the rest slicked back so tightly I can see his skull through the thinning strands.
