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They don’t need me. They need to deliver a façade to the world. Declare that the Coopersons are perfect, and their children never fail to appear during these ridiculous gatherings.
“Is Fey going?” The answer is no, of course. Fey is somewhere around the world, not giving a shit about her family but faking that she’s giving back to the community.
“Of course not, Tristan. Fey’s in Port-au-Prince rebuilding the city.”
I hold in my laugh. My sister has zero altruism running through her veins. Dylan would know where our little sister is. I don’t give a shit about her whereabouts. Fey and I no longer speak to each other. Not after she made up a story about me because I caught her high and drunk at a party. That was long ago, during Christmas break when I was a sophomore in college.
She informed our parents that I hadn’t changed my deviations—she saw me kissing a guy.
That’s a lie, but my father believed her. He and Dylan beat the shit out of me. Then, they shoved the subject under the rug. A way to make me understand that mychoices, as usual, were poor. Because there’s no fucking way that a Cooperson man likes guys.
They think the wordbisexualis a fashion statement, not a way of being. Not the way their firstborn should be—the one who’ll inherit the business and all that shit.
“Look, Father, I don’t give a shit about your board or Dylan’s life. Your world is millions of years apart from mine. See you during the holidays.” I end the call.
My mother is going to call. I can hear her arguments, including her ramblings about Victoria and how I have to give her a chance.It’s for a cause, Tristan.When Mother married Father, she barely knew him, and they’ve been together for thirty-five years. That’s their fucking prerogative, not mine. To get rid of some of the rage I carry, I head to the gym. That should burn off the conversation and bring me back from Connecticut and the fucking farce I lived in that house.
ChapterSixteen
Tristan
This was a bad idea—drinkingmyself to oblivion.
The entire room spins around. Well, the hallway. Fuck, I am not twenty anymore. Why did I let my father get under my skin? No. It was my mother, not him. As I headed to the gym, she called me.
“After everything I’ve done for you, and this is how you repay me.” She began crying. “I’ve given you space, but it’s time for you to leave that forsaken city filled with lowlifes. The least you could do is visit your family and be there when we celebrate the good things.”
The good things never include my successes.
This is my life, not theirs. From the moment I took my first breath and until I decided to leave them behind, they ruled every second of my life. My parents expected me to marry that bitch—fuck, I am so drunk, I can’t remember her name. Her father owns an old advertising company thatmyfather wants to acquire by marriage. Well, he should divorce Mom, and fucking marry the fucker who owns it.
After I hung up, I headed to the old Silver Moon and drank several whiskey sours and several beers to wash down the bottle of scotch I ordered. Fuck. I’m carrying too much guilt.
For fuck’s sake, I’m thirty-three. I should be in charge of my life, my decisions, and my actions. Regrets are going to follow me all my life.
I don’t want that anymore.
When I come out of the elevator, I try to open the door of my place, but the key doesn’t work. Still, the door opens. A set of magnetic eyes stare at me and I want to beg him to take me—now, against the wall.
“I would if you weren’t drunk,” he says, and I’m guessing I thought that out loud. “We’ve already talked about you being drunk, haven’t we?”
“Fuck, you’re so hot, Matthew,” I voice without any inhibitions. “My father would shoot me if he knew I let you stick your dick in my ass.”
Matthew’s nostrils flare, and pity flashes through his eyes. “I’m not judging, but dude, don’t drink yourself into a stupor like this.” He pulls me into his arms, closes the door, and helps me walk toward the sofa.
“Want to talk about it?”
I shake my head.
Matthew cups my chin with his hand, lifting my head. “Keeping it inside won’t help you at all. I’m here for you, babe. Talk to me.”
“My fucking parents.” My words come out slurry.
Instead of stopping, I close my eyes, shutting out the light—and maybe the world. After several seconds, I continue talking, “They’re controlling, always have been. They want me to take charge of the family business… Hell, they even have the woman I should marry all picked out. Have I ever told you they sent me to a place in Texas? They called it conversion therapy.”
I laugh. “They tried to take the queer out of me with holy water, physical pain, and emotional torture. For three months, I lived on a farm where I heard day and night how God would condemn me for liking men.
“Day and night, they submitted me to ‘sexual conversion therapy.’ Sex is dirty and sex with men is a sin. Afterward, I went to a therapist who ‘helped me’ with my rebellion. I live in a constant state of self-rejection, Matt. Fighting who I am because of what I was told.”
