While other kids played catch with their dads, I was always the criminal in my dad’s prosecutorial mock trials and my mom the victim. Nothing has changed, except me, in this scenario. I reply, “If you feel it’s necessary.”
He tips his head to dig through a short stack of files in his desk drawer, then lays it on the desk mat in front of him and flips it open. Why does it feel like he’s moving in slow motion? Purposeful tactic? Everything he does has a reason, even if it’s not initially apparent.
Scanning the papers like he doesn’t already know what’s in them is insulting to both of our intelligence. He’s been an attorney for over thirty-five years and wrote the contract himself, though he had the family lawyer execute it.
I know better than to interrupt. A few smacks across the face taught me that. Sitting here now, I’m not the same kid I once was although my past will be used against me. In some respects, I don’t blame them. A year later, I’m a changed man?
The notion seems impossible.
I had no reason to change, though I put on a good show. That life was unsustainable for any length of time. I knew I would fail before I even tried to be with Camille like they wanted. After that, I precariously balanced between being the heir they wanted and living so hard that I might not wake up. But I hadn’t met Story yet.
Closing the file again as if he’s now caught up on the latest news, he sits back, his eyes becoming beady as he stares at me. “You’re a good-looking kid. You take after your mother.”
I chuckle, never predicting this would be the direction the conversation would go. “You don’t think the Haywoods are attractive?”
“Fuck, no. You think your mom would have married me if I didn’t have money? I believe there’s a side of her that loves me, but I might be confusing that with tolerance.”
“Then why would you want me to marry Camille?” I ask, leaning forward. It’s always been a part of their deal. I know the contract well. Some parts still shock me that they were even written down, much less there like it’s normal.
Nothing about signing a contract regarding your partner and future personal life is normal. He says, “Because it’s something your mother wants. She and Camille’s mom are best friends. Arranged marriages are one of the oldest traditions—”
“Not in America. Your marriage wasn’t arranged. No one in our goddamn history had an arranged marriage, Dad.”
“No one needed one before.” He puffs on the cigar, then rocks back in the leather wingchair
“So you’d rather me spend my life with someone who tolerates me instead of loves me?”
Little billows of smoke are exhaled into the air as he mulls it over. For a second, one brief one, I see a man who cares. “It’s a dilemma, son.” Rocking forward again, he takes his fountain pen and centers it on the mat. “The time for debate is over. We gave you the year you asked for. You’ve graduated, but now it’s time to grow up and be responsible. You’re the sole heir to wealth that will continue to support our family for generations to come. Settle down and get married. Camille can pop out a few kids, and you can fuck whoever you want on the side. Work or sit back and enjoy your brood. We’re giving you more than you could ever want, Cooper. But now it’s time to make a decision using your brain and not your dick.”
“What about my heart?” I ask with less anger, less of me altogether. The wiggle room I had to get out for good has closed in on me. He’s going to get what he wants—a decision being made after I was pushed in a corner.
“It’s always been a worthless organ. Don’t fall into the traps, and there will be plenty more in the future.”
Story has been relegated to a “trap” in their eyes. They don’t know her at all, or her heart and intentions. They’re judging her by other women who preceded her in my life, and it sounds like from his as well. “That sounds like you know from experience.”
“Your mother was a wise decision. She’s still beautiful, intelligent, and she’s passionate about upholding the Haywood legacy. I couldn’t have asked for a better wife.”
I sit back in the chair and look out the window. “Is that all that matters? If she looks good on my arm and on paper?”
The question seems to stump the great legal mind of Cooper Haywood, Esquire. “Maybe you need to ask yourself why you’re with someone that doesn’t add to your standing in society.”
“Society turned its back on me a long time ago. Why would I give a shit about my standing in it now?”
Resting his forearms on the desk, he clasps his hands together. The white knuckling has always been one of his tics that I’ve used to monitor how far I can push things. As it stands now, white knuckles leave no room for him to change his mind.
“You’re in love with a girl who hasn’t traveled fifty miles outside Atterton until you took her to New York City and then brought her to Haywood. You saw her eyes. They were as big as saucers when she saw this place. I’m sure her ears were ringing with the sound of the register. Scoring a Haywood would be a big windfall for Ms. Salenger.”
“No,” I say, slamming my fist on the desk. “Stop it. Now. Don’t fucking talk about her like you’re doing her or me a favor.” My mind is still blown by how shortsighted he’s being. “If you can give her any credit for what she’s survived and achieved on her own, then look at me, your only son. I’m the healthiest I’ve ever been because of her. Doesn’t that matter?”
He chuckles, then sucks on his cigar again. “Healthy, huh? We all saw how she handles alcohol. The girl drinks like a fish. If that’s the standard you’re working from, I guess she matches your drinking problem.”
I stand, tired of this bullshit. “I should have known any conversation that I came to you in earnest would devolve into insults and inventing shit as a verbal knockdown.” I stare at him. “The saddest part to me doesn’t involve money. It’s that I’m left wondering why I wasted so many years caring. Fuck you and your legacy.”
“You don’t care. Okay, I didn’t want to go there.”
Throwing my arms out, I ask, “Go where? To hell? Look around, Dad. We’re already there.” I’m done. I’m done with everything. I’ll start over with Story. We’ll make ends meet. I’ll sell my cars. I’ll sell everything if it means I get to be with her. I walk to the door and swing it open. “Give it all away for all I care.”
Before I have time to walk through the doorway, he says, “Calliope Salenger.”
With my back to him, I still, the name freezing me to the spot, even my breath refusing to escape. When he doesn’t say anything, I shut the door and turn back around. “What about her?”
He reaches for a drawer again, but this time that particular one is locked. He jiggles it and then laughs to himself as if it’s an inside joke. Pulling the key from his pocket, he mumbles, “I always forget I lock this one.” The sound of the cylinders clicking free the drawer, and my dad slides it open. He sets a red file in front of him. “Pretty girl. Tragic death.”
A depravity that has never been a part of our conversations has seeped into the room, smelling of desperation. “What are you doing?”
“I’m doing what any good father would. I’m making sure my son doesn’t fuck up his life any more than he has.”
“No, I don’t want you to give me the answer you think is right. I want you to look me in the eyes and use the organ you claim is worthless to speak to me. It may be your last chance.”
The time that passes—seconds, maybe minutes—severs another tie that binds us. There are very few left to be risking them so callously.
The creak of his chair when he shifts across the worn leather amps up the adrenaline inside me, causing me the anxiety I was always running to escape. He’ll hold his cards to his chest all damn day, so I ask, “So this is blackmail?”
“Let’s not throw words around that could get us all arrested.”
“You can’t touch me.”