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Chapter 1
LUCAS
Ifsomeonehadtoldme a year ago that I would be sitting in a fancy cafe in downtown New York, with my parents, eating brunch, I would have laughed in their face. I’m still having difficulty coming to terms with it. Despite sitting across from my father, who still has refused to say a single word to me this entire time. I suppose there are a few things we have yet to work on.
The café Mom chose is definitely a place anyone older than fifty and slowly teetering off the edge of New York high society would be found on a late Saturday morning. Chandeliers dangle and twinkle every few feet, while men clad in dark suits carry platters filled with food and mimosas. The floor is carpeted in red and the tables are crafted from dark mahogany.
Needless to say, it’s definitely not my scene. Then again, given I am a poor, starving artist, anything fancier than a pizza joint and a dive bar is not my scene.
“How are the eggs, darling?” Mom asks with an awkward smile. She shoots Dad a look, who pretends to be busy staring into his scotch. He ordered the Eggs Benedict, but hasn’t touched a single slice of bacon on his plate. My first concern is if he’s ill, but given how he’s drastically trying to ignore me, I can only assume if he is ill, it’s due to my presence.
Mom sighs when Dad doesn’t answer and she turns back to me, swirling the wine in her glass before leaning back in her chair. “So, your father and I are hosting New Year’s again this year.”
Dad scoffs and rolls his eyes, and I watch as he takes a very long swig from his scotch. I suppose he‘s still perturbed about last New Year’s when he crashed the Goodes’ party and demanded I come with him. Unfortunately, for him, I refused to go and he not only embarrassed Mom, but made a complete ass out of himself. He probably blames me for the whole thing, too. I can’t say that I’m surprised he does. He has always been the type to think he can do no wrong, which explains why he’s acting like a big man-baby right now.
“We’ve gotten some replies back, but not as many as I had hoped,” Mom continues, her smile dissipating while she fights off a grimace. The Brent name has been slowly drowning ever since I was cut off. Apparently, making scenes at New Year’s events and cutting off your child is a no-no in high society.
Correction, having a dramatic, in-public, family squabble is a huge no-no. Samuel Allen hasn’t had a relationship with his daughter for a very long time, but all that was handled quietly and discreet.
“We did hear back from the Allens,” Mom says while setting her glass next to her half-eaten slice of toast and her untouched boiled egg.
“Oh, and what did Sam say?” Dad asks, his tone laced with irritation, while he gazes out the window to his left.
Mom makes a face that says it all: things are not going well and Brents are definitely on the outs. “That he will try.”
Dad scoffs and shakes his head. He murmurs something I don’t catch, but I can only assume it’s something rude.
“But the Goodes sent a lovely note.”
“You invited the Goodes?” Dad shouts. He slams his scotch onto the table and snaps his head in Mom’s direction, his eyes so filled with rage I expect them to shoot laser beams depending on Mom’s answer.
Mom’s mouth opens and closes, looking like she’s scrambling for the correct words Dad is searching for until finally she sighs and bobs her head. “Yes.”
“You have to be kidding me.” Dad rolls his eyes, his head following the motion. “After the way they tossed us out last year?”
“We shouldn’t have even been there!” Now it’s Mom’s turn to roll her eyes.
Dad opens his mouth, before quickly catching himself and shooting me a dark glare. I don’t know what he expects me to do with that. Does he want me to apologize for not going with him when he was acting like a lunatic? Does he expect me to apologize for not caring that he cut me off? Ha! Fat chance that’s happening. Instead, I smile while cutting off a slice from my French toast before shoving it into my mouth. I can barely taste the sugar at this point. My focus is completely directed at Dad. He can be pissed all he wants. It’s not like I asked to be here. The only reason why I came is because Mom and I have been talking and bettering our relationship. Apparently, she’s been going to therapy and somehow is less of a narcissist for it. Shocking.
“Anyway,” Mom breathes. “The Goodes wish us a happy New Year and they hope to see us at the luncheon next Friday.”
“Fat chance we’re invited to that,” Dad mutters.
“We have been. Lucile personally told me to come, and she’s one of the hostesses.”
Dad merely shakes his head.
“Enough about us,” Mom says, displaying a sweet smile in my direction, her voice losing its sharp edge. “What are you doing for New Year’s? Are you going to the Goodes again?” Before I can even open my mouth to answer, Mom rushes out, “Would you like to come to our New Year’s party? You can invite your friends of course. Even that girl you’re dating. It would be no trouble. We have plenty of room for guests!”
Her hopeful tone and the desperate glint in her eye makes me feel like I have been sucker-punched in the gut with guilt. I know she’s trying. She’s trying a lot more than Dad ever did, and I definitely appreciate it. Although, a part of me is waiting for her to return to her old ways—for her to get mean, to manipulate me into doing something she would prefer, to burst into a fit of tears and tell me I’m a terrible son.
“Sorry,” I say with a shake of my head. “I already made plans with the bros and Rachel.”
“Oh.” I watch Mom nod, the disappointment evident in that one single word. Dad doesn’t say anything, completely intrigued by the crumb on the table. “I understand. Of course, you’re busy.” She forces a smile and leans forward, placing her hand on mine. “I’m so happy you were able to make it today. I know you’re busy.”
An awkward silence falls over us as Mom leans back in her seat. She picks up her glass and takes a long sip. Dad is still refusing to look at me and unfortunately, I’m no longer interested in finishing my French toast. I try not to take out my phone, knowing it’s only been, at most, forty-five minutes, but I’m desperate to leave. There’s really nothing more for us to say to each other.
“How’s your writing been going?” Mom forces out, looking visually pained at bringing it up. Her gaze slides to Dad and I instantly understand why. Dad doesn’t want to hear about it. I watch him scowl at the table, his jaw clenching, his hands fisting.
