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"Fuck this." Isaac jumps up with such speed, his chair crashes to the ground.
The girl shoots him a worried glance. "Isaac, please—" She walks over to touch his arm, but he shakes it off.
"You can keep your charity. I don’t want any of your money or any inheritance." He scowls.
His American accent is even more pronounced—a dead giveaway that he’s pissed off. That’s what I intended, isn’t it? To prod him until he loses his temper? Why is it that when I’m with my son, I can’t seem to stop myself from falling to his level? Why is it that I have such a difficult time remembering that I’m supposed to be the adult in this relationship? It’s not only the fact that hearing his accent reminds me of how my wife insisted on sending them to the American school in London. Insisted that my kids speak in an American accent. I worked myself to the bone to pay the fees for their school, to give them a lifestyle I could have only dreamed of growing up in myself… And yet, somehow, they both resent me for it. And now, my son is back under my roof.
I draw in a breath. "And yet, you’re here," I murmur.
"And now, I’m leaving." He spins around and begins to walk away, but she runs over to him.
"Isaac, stop." She grips his arm, and this time, he allows her to stop him. "We can’t afford to piss him off," she says in a low voice, but I can still hear the conversation. "We need this, Isaac."
"I don’t need him for anything," my son growls.
I wince.
She stiffens. "So, what are you going to do? Spend the night on the street, or in a homeless shelter?"
"There has to be another way." He drags his fingers through his hair.
"You know there isn’t. You’re struggling to sell your paintings, and I don’t have a job. We need him, Isaac."
"Fuck," my son growls. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
"Glad to see your vocabulary is as varied as I remember it to be," I drawl.
"Can you stop already?" She pivots to face me. "We’re trying to figure this out, okay? You don’t have to plant your big foot in the middle and make it worse."
I blink. When was the last time anyone spoke to me in that tone of voice?
"Can you give us a few minutes?" she says through gritted teeth.
I tilt my head, waiting.
"Please?" She finally forces out the word.
"You have five." I lean back in my chair.
She stares at me.
If she thinks I’m going to leave this vastly entertaining spectacle and have the decency to give them some privacy, she is sadly mistaken.
"Four minutes thirty-eight seconds now," I announce.
"Asshole," she says under her breath.
"What was that?"
She covers her mouth with her hand. "I said thank you."
"Four minutes and ten seconds." I tap my watch, "Tick-tock, girl."
She looks like she is about to protest, then grabs Isaac by his wrist and hauls him to the other end of the room. A whispered conversation ensues. I watch with interest as she speaks animatedly, and Isaac listens. He shakes his head, then turns to leave, but she blocks his way. She throws up her hands. He scowls. She stabs a finger in his chest. He hunches his shoulders. Interesting.
My son has always been willful and adamant. When he was a child, I didn’t spend much time with him, too busy building my empire. I wanted to give him everything I never had. Turns out, the one thing I should have given him was my time. When he was little, I spent too much time working, spent too much time away from him. The result? I never managed to bond properly with him. I threw enough money at my kids to make sure they’d never want for anything. By the time I realized I didn’t really know him, he was already a teenager, and the distance between us kept increasing. I had failed as a father, but perhaps it’s not too late to try to build some kind of relationship with him? Maybe this is the opportunity to do so. But I can’t allow him to just waltz in here and think he can simply get access to his fortune. He needs to work for it. It’s the only way he’ll realize the value of what’s being handed to him.
Isaac finally nods. She straightens, then turns and marches over to me, with him in tow.
