I glare at her and want to yell for her to just get it over with already. “Make me a . . . Mom? Just tell me why you want me here. What was so important that you had to send Brae?”
She sits back down and takes a deep breath. The air between us is thick with her silence, and I start to wonder if she even heard me.
“Mom, spit it—”
“Diane?” The General’s deep voice echoes from the hallway that leads to their bedroom. “We have company?”
Her eyes widen, and she tilts her head toward his voice, but keeps her eyes on me. “Yes, honey. Blake’s here.”
The only sound coming from the hallway is shuffling, and out of habit, I stand to greet my father. He comes around the corner, and all the air leaves my lungs in a whoosh.
“Dad . . .” It’s not what I call him, and even as the single word left my lips, I wondered why it came as easily as it did. I clear my throat. “Sir?”
“Son.” His steely green stare fixes on mine for a second before he drops his gaze and continues to move toward my mom and me. He’s smaller than he was the last time I saw him, his usual military posture now that of an old man. His hair seems to have grayed even more, and what used to be strikingly sharp facial features now seem gaunt. But even still, his presence fills the room.
My mom moves to help him to the chair she was sitting in, but he waves her off and drops into the one right next to it, allowing his wife to keep her spot.
Once seated, he takes a breath as if just trudging across the room cost him all his energy. “I see your brother was more persuasive than I gave him credit for.”
His voice calls me back to the present, and I sit back down, elbows on my knees, ass on the edge of the couch. “What’s going on, sir? You look. . .” I can’t even put a name on what he looks like.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Look like shit?”
I nod and shrug one shoulder. “I mean, yeah. Last time I saw you, when you came to Vegas, you seemed fine.”
His expression twists in a grimace. “About that, Blake . . .” He sets his eyes on me, and now that I get a closer look, those too look pale. “I didn’t give you the benefit of the doubt. I assumed you were causing trouble when you weren’t, and I’m . . .” He licks his lips, preparing for something that is so foreign it’s probably painful. “I’m sorry. I wish I could take back the things I said.”
His apology knocks me back with a jerk. I blink, stutter, and search for a proper response. I’m shocked by his apology, but it doesn’t take away the sting that years of his rejection have caused. “It’s, um . . . nice of you to say that, but what’s done is done. I could’ve used your support back then when I was locked up. Some things are too old to take back.”
He pins me with a thoughtful stare, not intimidation as much as introspection. “I hope that’s not true.”
I gaze at my mom, who has tears in her eyes, and what started as anxiety flares into widespread fucking fury. Even now, I can’t help but feel as if they’re fucking with me. Jerking me around without letting me in on the why of this mindfuck.
“Tell me what the hell is going on, or I swear to Christ I’ll walk out of here and never come back.” My breathing speeds up, and I can’t hold back the waterfall of anger that’s threatening to spill.
My dad holds up a shaky hand. “Calm down—”
“Don’t you fucking tell me to calm down! You haven’t spoken to me but to tell me how disappointed you are in me and tell me what a fuck up I am, and now that I’m here, you look like you’re knockin’ on death’s door and apologizing? I left my family, my very pregnant fiancée, to be here, so do me the courtesy of filling me in so I can get the fuck gone.” I run two hands over my scalp, begging to keep it together. “Just stop messing with my head.”
“Duke.” Mom’s call of my dad’s name sounds almost frantic, as if he has the power to make things right, and she’s pleading with him to do so.
He lifts his chin in a show of stoicism. “I’m dying.”
And the world fucking stops. Life hits pause. The room, our expressions, everything except the steady thud of my heart.
Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.
“What did you say?” I whisper, but my voice sounds distant, as if I’m calling from another room.
“I have stage-four pancreatic cancer.” He’s sitting up tall, acting as if he’s just told me the headline of today’s news.
My thumping heart drops into my gut. “You’re undergoing treatment?”
“There’s treatment that could buy me some time, but there’s no cure.”
“What treatment?” That must explain why he looks so beaten up, as if he’s been put through the ringer and laid out wet.
“Your dad is refusing treatment, Blake. He’s choosing against it because the odds are—”
“Whoa. What?” The question is spit from between my clenched teeth. Am I hearing what I think I’m hearing? He’s dying without a fight?