But either way, fuck her.
I jam my keys in the ignition and turn the volume up. Hard rock vibrates my chest as the bass rumbles and I tear out of the parking lot and toward the highway to Chicago. Since I’m in a bad mood anyway, I might as well get this over with.
The highway stretches in front of me and the loud music calms me as I drive. I lose myself in it, actually. I allow it to numb me, to absorb the negative thoughts. I almost reach for my vial, which is safely ensconced in my jacket, but I don’t. I told myself that I wouldn’t, not for a while, and I won’t. I’m not weak. And I’m not a *.
As the miles are absorbed by my rearview mirror, the sky swallows the road in the horizon bit by bit until I’m finally crossing the bridge into Chicago and onto the Skyway.
By the time I arrive at my dad’s downtown office, I have managed to put my agitation away, to tuck the image of Mila’s face far away in my mind.
Because fuck her.
I have the urge to punch a wall, but I don’t. Instead, I make my way to the eighteenth floor and my father’s receptionist lets him know that I am here. I make myself comfortable in his sitting area, taking a mint out of a bowl and popping it into my mouth.
My eyes are closed when my father finally appears twenty minutes later.
“Pax, get your feet off of the furniture.”
His voice is tired and I open my eyes. He looks older since I saw him last quarter. His dark hair is just beginning to gray at the temples, and he has lines around his eyes. And his mouth. His navy blue suit seems to hang a bit on him, like he lost weight and hasn’t taken the time to have his clothing altered. I stare at him, amazed at the idea that my father is growing old.
And then I yank my feet off of the table in front of me.
“Sorry,” I mumble. My father nods and leads me to his big office.
I sit in a chair in front of him and wait until he slides a few papers across his desk toward me.
I don’t even read them, I simply sign my name. I trust him.
“You should always read anything that you sign your name on,” he admonishes me for what seems like the hundredth time regarding this subject. And for the hundredth time, I reply in the same way.
“I do, when it’s a stranger. But you’re my father. I know you aren’t going to fuck me over.”
Dad sighs again. “Can you at least try to watch your language? It’s the respectful thing to do.”
“Sorry,” I mutter again.
For Christ’s sake. He acts like I’m a child. But that’s part of our problem. Our relationship will always be frozen in his head-back to a time when I was a child and he was the adult. He doesn’t seem to understand that we’re both adults now.
“Alexander Holdings had an exceedingly good quarter,” my dad remarks, taking back the papers and shuffling them. “So your income has increased this time. You really might want to consider investing. You’re twenty-four years old. It’s time to grow your portfolio. And maybe take an interest in your family’s company. Your grandfather has contacted me, wanting to know how to reach you. He’s an old man, Pax. He won’t be around much longer. He wants to know that his company is in good hands.”
I stare at him, fighting the urge to curl my lip.
“I don’t want anything to do with the business,” I tell my father. “I don’t agree with anything they stand for. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll hire a CEO to run the place after he finally kicks it. And as far as my grandfather goes, it’s his fault that he’s all alone. He basically disowned me when we moved away. He’s got himself to blame.”
My father’s eyes glaze over and he turns to stare out his window.
“Pax, your grandfather wasn’t the same after your mother died. None of us were. You can’t hold that against him. When we moved, he felt like he was losing you too, and you were the last connection that he had with your mother. Since your grandma died so long ago, you and Susanna were all he had. When he lost her and then you, he felt like he lost everything.”
“Yet he didn’t have to lose me,” I spit angrily. “His fucking temper is what caused him to lose me. He chose to be angry and cut off contact. I was just a kid. I didn’t even choose to move. You did. But he took it out on me. So, as far as I’m concerned, he can rot.”
My father stares at me, his gaze thoughtful as he temples his fingers in front of him. Finally he sighs and nods.
“I guess I can understand your feelings. Your grandfather is a formidable man. And stubborn. He used to make your mom want to pull her hair out sometimes.”
And now his eyes really do glaze over as he thinks about my mom, lost in his memories. If there was ever anyone who didn’t get over her death, it was most certainly my father.
“Dad, you look like you aren’t eating right,” I tell him, pulling him from his thoughts and back into the present with me. He doesn’t look happy about it, either. He prefers to live in a world made from memories.