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My lips parted at the same time I realized I didn’t know what to say. “I didn’t know,” I said simply.
“No reason you should.” His back faced me. “My father died when I was three. Shortly after, Mom married John and he raised me as his own. Despite... recent events... John was a great father. He treated me no differently than Victor. Dad attended all my games. He gave me the talk when I hit puberty. Bought me a car on my sixteenth birthday. I was never without, but in his eyes, I didn’t appreciate the honor of being a Wilson. Of being his son.”
“Didn’t appreciate the honor? What did he want you to do? Sign a pledge in blood every Father’s Day?”
Adonis shot me an amused look over his shoulder. “No, but that might have helped. Actually, it was little things that grew into big things. I got closer to my biological father’s family when I was in my teens. Spent summers with my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. More than once I begged to skip the Wilson family reunions for a vacation with the Anthonys.”
“Strike one?”
“And two, and three, and four, and so on.” Adonis blew out a breath. “When I was old enough, I changed my last name back to Anthony. My intent was only ever to honor him—keep his memory alive in me and... my future children.”
I reached for him and stopped myself again. Adonis wanted me at arm’s length. I had to blackmail him to get this far. Better not to clam him up by touching him.
“John was furious. He banged on about me rejecting him and the Wilson legacy. I deepened his disappointment by majoring in literature and declaring I had no intention of joining the family business. Refusing to give him grandchildren was the final straw. If I didn’t want to be his son, he’d make it simple for me. I’m out of the family.”
I hugged myself, so desperate to put my arms around him, I didn’t know what else to do. “Adonis, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He shoved the books on the shelf with extra force. “There. That answers your question and the others, I’m sure. The whole tragic backstory. I assume we’re done here.”
I sensed his need for this discussion to be over. I’d give in—with one final word.
“I know you wanting to honor your father came from a pure place. I never knew my father. Only that my parents loved each other but their relationship was forbidden and doomed to fail.”
“Forbidden?”
I shrugged. “Maybe he was her professor.”
The look that comment bought me singed my eyebrows. “Do not make those kinds of jokes.”
“Had to.” I grinned. “Your angry face is better than the closed, emotionally blank one you like.”
“So you made that up?”
“No,” I replied, perching on the edge of his desk. “My sister and I really were the result of a forbidden romance. Mom won’t confirm or deny, but the obvious conclusion is he’s married. That’s why she would never tell us his name. Your love children showing up on your doorstep eighteen years later tends to put a kink in the marriage.”
“If that’s true, I’m sorry too.”
I dropped my head, not letting him see my expression. “The point is I understand why you wanted to feel close to the man you never truly knew. I apologize for dragging up sad memories.”
“You have nothing to apologize for. I could’ve stopped at ‘John’s my stepfather.’ I chose to tell you the whole story. I’m wondering why now,” he muttered.
“I’m easy to talk to. Everyone says so.”
“Does everyone include the mother who begged for your silence with sweets or the nuns who avoided you?”
“A very mean man indeed.”
He laughed, and I internally kicked myself. I had to stop chasing that sound before it became an addiction.
“Can I still have my final four questions?”
“Two,” Adonis said firmly. “Go ahead.”
“Why literature?”
“Oh, well, that I would’ve given you for free. The real question is why not literature? Language and storytelling are what defines us as a species...”
I relaxed as he spoke, explaining the wonders of the voices on his shelves—passion lacing every word.
“This is what I was meant to do. I love literature, and it brings me joy to share it with my students,” he finished. “What about you, Luna?”
My eyes popped at him using my first name.
“Why psychology? The real reason, not that damned-awful tripe scribbled on paper and handed to me.”
I made a choked noise in my throat. “Jeez. I get it, my first paper was bad. The second one was better.”
“The second was worse.” The sentence dropped like an anvil on my good mood. “You loaded it with flowery metaphors and strangled prose to cover up the fact you weren’t saying anything of substance. I’d rather you just tell me you’re going into psychology for the money.”
