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Behind me, my father is still droning on and on, and I’m not catching a single line. Instead, I lean forward and try to read as much of the document as I can. The other papers on his desk seem to be things like sermon notes, press releases, printed articles, and proposals.
This page is an official document, crinkled at one edge with a coffee stain on the other. The most I can make out from here is an address I don’t recognize and a name I’ve never seen before.
I peer behind me to see my dad with his back to me, so I move fast, pulling out my phone and snapping a quick pic of the document before he can turn back around.
“Are you listening to me, Adam?” His sharp tone rips my attention away from the paper.
“Yes, sir,” I lie.
“Well, aren’t you going to argue with me? Defend yourself, for fuck’s sake.”
My nostrils flare and another growling sigh emits from my chest. “It’s late, Dad. I’m tired. I was up all night writingyoursermon, remember?”
“Watch your tone,boy.”
When I stand and face him, he lets out another chuckle of laughter, this time darker and more sarcastic than before. Sometimes, I wonder when he looks at me like that if my father even likes me.
Sometimes, I wonder if he hates me.
I don’t wonder about my brothers. Iknowhe doesn’t like the twins.
And I know he hated Isaac.
Hates not hated.
But me… I’ve stood by his side since I was a child. I’ve doted and dedicated my life to his mentorship. Because I thought that’s what he wanted. A son to carry on his legacy. It was the only way to earn his love.
Yet, as the two of us grow older, I can’t help but wonder if my father would like his legacy to die with him. Too greedy to share the spotlight, even after his death.
And now this. The biggest slap in the face of my life.
“Get some rest, son,” my father says, clapping that heavy hand on my shoulder again. The look on his face is smug enough to punch, but I know that’s not possible. So I punch him in my head—hard enough to knock him out.
Then I smile like the good son I am and walk out the door.
Six
Adam
The radio is turned down and the GPS is guiding me through the dark city streets as I grow closer and closer to my destination. The address on that property title is now stored safely in my phone, and I’m too damn curious to let it go. There’s something oddly familiar about it, but what’s really drawing me to see it for myself is the fact that my father doesn’t own any properties outside of the church and his house.
So why, all of a sudden, is he in possession of a deed for some downtown warehouse? And why wouldn’t he tell me about it? He usually tells me about all of his business dealings—more so to boast, I’m sure. On occasion, he’ll assign me tasks, like organizing a book signing or a public appearance at a soup kitchen.
But keeping me entirely in the dark on whatever this is only feeds into the bitterness I’m already feeling toward him.
My hand squeezes the steering wheel as I replay the events in his office tonight. That smug look on his face when he reassigned the sermon writing to Mark. The way he brushed off my loyalty to him and the church. Because, deep down, I know my father doesn’t care about any of it. Not the congregation. Not God. Not his family.
The only thing he cares about ishimself.
My brothers know that. They picked that up a lot faster than I did, which is why they jumped ship years ago.
Not me. I spent my entire adulthood living up to his standards. While my brothers went to parties and wasted their years away having promiscuous sex and discovering themselves, I was at home writing his sermons and patting myself on the back for being thegoodson.
Did he ever really care? My career and my future mean nothing to him. The only time he ever truly valued having me around was when I made him look good. During the press release of my book,Footsteps,he stood by my side, not as support to me, but as publicity forhimself. He congratulated me whenhisfollowing increased, not when my book, a memoir about growing up as the son of a preacher, hit the best seller’s list.
This downtown district is quiet, but as I get closer to my destination, the buzz of people on the streets intensifies. A brightly lit taco truck parked on the side garners a line, and I peer out my window to check out the people standing there. Most of them are dressed in the sort of fashion you’d expect for a night at the club—leather and skin.
There’s a chain-link parking lot on the right, and I pull in, backing into a spot as the GPS informs me that I’ve arrived at my destination. I’m facing a black-brick warehouse on the corner that appears to be some sort of nightclub, judging by the young people milling about on the sidewalk outside.
