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Now I’m at my office desk, staring at my laptop, reading an email about shareholder prices for the millionth time.
And I don’t care. I don’t fucking care.
I grab my laptop and hurl it against the wall. It doesn’t break. But it does dent the wall.
“Um. Excuse me, sir?” my assistant Joey asks tentatively from the doorway. He looks warily at the laptop-size dent in the plaster.
“What?” I bark, then scrub a hand over my face. “Sorry, it’s not your fault. What do you need?”
“Your dad invited you to dinner at his house tonight. It sounds important. I think he wants to talk about...” Joey lowers his voice and leans in, “the CEO position.”
I wait to care about that. To feel that normal hunger to lead the company I’ve been training to take over since birth.
I don’t feel anything, other than the all-consuming ache that’s been weighing me down since Hazel gave me back her ring.
I’m still carrying the damn thing around in my pocket. Like maybe she’ll wander back into my life and need it.
Fuck, I’m a mess.
“Sure,” I hear myself say. “Dinner at my dad’s. Why the hell not?”
I must seem unhinged because Joey looks at me like he’s worried. Then he slowly backs out of the room.
* * *
I drive too faston the way to my dad’s. It feels good, the same way a shot of cheap liquor feels good, until I realize that now I’m early.
I let myself into the house and follow the smell of food to the dining room.
When Mom was alive, we ate in the kitchen. But Dad and I don’t do that anymore.
No, we eat in the formal dining room, set by his staff.
I expect to see a chef fussing around the table settings when I walk in.
But instead, it’s my dad who’s carefully arranging the place settings. Making sure everything’s lined up perfectly.
He’s giving it so much focus, you’d think he was setting the table for U.N. Peace Summit.
When he sees me, he straightens, surprised. “Luke. You’re early.”
I shrug. “What did you want to talk about?”
He heads to the liquor cabinet. “We don’t have to talk business right away. How are things with Hazel?”
“I told you to keep her name out of your mouth,” I say. “Now why the hell did you drag me out here?”
He pours a glass of whiskey for himself. It’s the kind that’s 200 years old.
Dad’s always believed in patience.
He sips his glass. “I thought we could be civilized about this.” He studies me. “I read the first draft of your autobiography.”
“You...what?”
Hazel sent the draft to me yesterday. But I hadn’t been able to make myself read it.
“It’s exactly what I hoped for. Better.” He arcs an eyebrow. “Yourwriterdid a good job getting you to open up. The side of you she showed...well. Let’s say it made an impression on me. As I’m sure it will on everyone else who reads it.”
