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“What am I thinking, Beau? Because if it’s anything other than how relieved I am that you’re alive and healthy, you’re wrong.”
I scoff. “You’re thinking what a disappointment I am. Or maybe you’re pissed that I’m a hypocrite and gave you shit for years, but ended up in your club anyway, which makes me fucking stupid.”
“Stop it,” he barks, but I don’t listen. Not to him.
“Are you? Disappointed? That I’m not more like you.”
“What does that even mean?” he replies with his brows pinched together in confusion.
“That I can’t just be a real man. I know you know the truth now. Maggie is my Domme. I’m her sub.”
“Your relationship with Maggie is your business,” he replies calmly.
He’s being passive and agreeable, and it just pisses me off more. I want him to fight with me. I wish, for once, my father would just say the things to me that I see him thinking.
“Bullshit,” I bark at him. “It bugs you, doesn’t it? To find out I’m not as masculine as you thought.”
“Beau, stop it,” he bellows, loud enough to send his voice echoing through the room. My mouth shuts in a tight clench as I glare at him. “The only thing that bugs me is you thinking that my love and support for you has anything to do with masculinity. You think I care about how submissive you are to your partner? You think arealman can’t be submissive? Then I’ve failed you as a father, andthatbugs me.”
I don’t have a quippy response to that, but I’m still heated, still angry for no fucking reason. My nostrils flare as I stare ahead, replaying his words because, even though everything he said should make me feel better, it doesn’t. He’s being too fucking nice to me.
Why do I hate that so much?
I’ve been nothing but an asshole to him. I’ve spewed resentment and bitter jealousy at my father like poison for so long, I forget where it even started or why.
When he finally takes a seat in the chair by the window, I see the way his shoulders sag, his large frame starting to crumble, and for the first time I see Emerson Grant for what he really is.
Just a man.
He looks as lost and frustrated and confused as I feel all the fucking time.
“I just wish you’d be honest with me. Tell me what a fuck-up I am,” I mutter, already knowing what he’s about to say.
“You’re not a fuck-up, Beau. You think I had my shit figured out at twenty-two? No. I had a shitty job and a loveless marriage. But I also had you, so don’t tell me about feeling like a fuck-up, because, trust me, I know.”
As my eyes shift up to his face, all of the anger and frustration and desperation I was feeling suddenly congregates right in my throat, and not even the painkillers can make that shit not hurt.
“You weren’t a fuck-up,” I say quietly as I search my memory for any reminder of what Emerson, the twenty-two-year-old mess of a dad, looked like, but I can’t place a single instance. He’s always seemed put together, controlled, confident. He’s had it all figured out my entire life. I’ve never seen him struggle with anything.
At that, he laughs. Leaning back in his chair, he smiles. “Do you remember when you were six and we went on that last-minute road trip, just me and you, and we stayed at that motel by the ocean? We dumped our coin jars on the bed and rolled quarters all night while watching movies until the middle of the night?”
“Yeah…” I say, remembering that trip very well. He picked me up from school before I caught the bus and surprised me with a road trip. “We went surfing at the ass crack of dawn.”
He nods. “Yeah, well…we were homeless.”
I freeze. “What are you talking about?”
“I got evicted that day from the apartment I was renting because I couldn’t make a payment. But it was my weekend with you, so instead of canceling, I maxed out my credit card and took you on a trip.”
I sit up a little straighter. “But…no, you…” I stammer, trying to remember the details to prove him wrong. His expression is flat as he waits for me to figure it out.
“It took me a couple more months to find a place, so we stayed with friends for a while, but my point is that you think I had my shit together because I let you think that. I felt like a fuck-up, aroyalone that weekend, but I figured it out. Eventually. It took some time, but five years later, I started working with Garrett, and four years after that, we started a company. I still mess up, Beau. I don’t always have it together, and if you ever think I’m so confident or perfect, just remember that trip. I’m letting you see what I want you to see.”
As I stare at him in surprise, suddenly all the pieces click into place. “That day when they vandalized my car…why did they come to Mom’s house?” I ask, although I already know the answer.
“It must still show my name for the residence,” he replies.
“But you gave that house to Mom.”
