From the chair, Garrison looks up at me.
Say it. “My dad verbally abused me for most of my life, and I’d rather break my knees than put you in that crossfire. So if you want at him, you’re going to have to go through me.”
Ryke lets out an audible breath. He’s stunned because I said the actual word. In the past, I’ve agreed to the statement. I’ve nodded along. But I doubt I’ve ever said it like this.
My features sharpen towards Ryke. “What, big brother?” My eyes burn and start glassing at the sight of his cloudy ones.
His chest rises and falls heavily. Then he nods at me, so much in that one action. Apologies, pride for me, love—a lot of love.
I nod back.
I still remember the day Ryke made me pull my car into a gas station. There, he said: “Our dad abuses you. He’s verbally abusive, and he’s fucked with your head.”
I told him, I know. A part of me had always known. No one had really used that word with me before Ryke.
I’ve come to terms with my past. I can talk about what happened. I can even admit that my love for my father never bled away. Despite everything. He could gut me with a knife, and I’d still love him. After years of therapy, I understand that it’s partly my own insecurity.
Of feeling like I’m unlovable.
Feeling like he might be the only person who could ever love me.
And wanting, desperately, for someone to love him. Believing we’re the same. He has to feel a similar pain too, and he wants that pain to go away.
There’s no hate in my heart for my dad. Ryke carries all of it for me, but I wouldn’t wish my relationship with Jonathan Hale onto Garrison. Or anyone else.
Garrison has no real time to respond.
My blood ices over the minute the door swings open. My dad steps inside, shutting the door behind him. His hair has grayed, more salt than pepper.
I’m still standing with my brother, but Garrison rises off the chair as soon as my dad walks further into the den.
“You.” My dad points at Garrison. “We need to talk.”
“You can fucking talk here,” Ryke pipes in first. My brother feels responsible for not just Garrison but for me too.
“Actually.” Garrison zips up his jacket and slips his phone in his jean’s pocket. “I’m out.”
My dad physically stands in front of the door. “Don’t be a little coward. I barely even said a fucking word to you.”
Ryke and I fill the distance between Garrison and my dad, so they’re not standing close.
“Little coward? That’s a nice one,” Garrison says dryly.
My dad rolls his eyes, but I can tell he’s trying more than usual. He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Just sit down.”
Garrison contemplates this. “I’m trying not to make this worse for my girl, so the minute you come at me, I’m done.” He sits.
My dad nods. “That’s fair.” He leans his shoulder on the door. “Since we’re family, I’ll give you this courtesy.”
“Oh now we’re family. I must’ve missed that abrupt step-up from the shit on the bottom of your shoe.”
My dad lets out a short laugh. “This is why you have no friends—”
“Fuck you,” Ryke curses.
“Dad.” I shake my head at him. That’s what my dad used to tell me when I was younger. Garrison isn’t me. I swear remorse flits in my dad’s eyes.
Garrison cuts in, “It’s whatever. What do you want to say to me?”
“Congratulations,” my dad says in a much more light-hearted tone. “I would’ve started with that but you attacked first.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Ryke mutters like our dad is insane. I get him though.
“So you’re…okay with this?” Garrison frowns.
“If Willow is happy, then I’m happy. And she’s the happiest I’ve seen her.” There aren’t any handshakes or offers to smoke a cigar. Because he adds, “I thought you’d be different from Loren on this account.” He’s referring to Moffy. “What happened to the box of condoms I gave you?”
My brows shoot up. My dad gave Garrison condoms. I almost laugh.
Garrison cringes. “First of all, the pregnancy wasn’t an accident. Second, I threw that shit away. I can buy my own.”
“Wasteful, but maybe I would’ve done the same.”
Garrison looks repulsed at the comparison between him and Jonathan. He stands again, but not on the offensive or defensive. He’s neutral. My dad is neutral. Garrison asks, “Is that it?”
“You’re not my favorite,” he reminds him.
Garrison shrugs. “You’re not mine either.” He goes towards the door. I follow with Ryke too, but Jonathan Hale still blocks the exit.
“That’s not it.”
Garrison stops.
My dad captures his gaze as he says, “If you walk out on my daughter and her baby, I will find you and bleed you for all you’re worth.” He pauses. “And then I will find a way to make sure you never procreate again. Understood?”
Of all the things he’s ever said, this is pretty mild.
Garrison snaps, “Our baby. It’s not only hers.”
My dad casually steps aside. “Is something wrong with your left eardrum? Did you not hear the rest?”
“About bleeding me, cutting off my dick—yeah, I heard all that.” He nods. “Awesome. I’d feel the same way if someone broke her heart. I love Willow, and I’m not going anywhere, so you’ll just have to deal with me being your least favorite.”
My dad walks to a beverage cart, just water and lemons on the silver tray. “I never fucking said you were my least favorite.” He picks up a pitcher of water. “Just not my favorite.”
“Who’s your least favorite?” Garrison has to ask.
My dad just fills up a crystal glass. “You three should return to your wives. They’re outside gossiping, I’m sure.”
Ryke grumbles something about sexism before pushing out the door. I follow behind with Garrison. Neutral. That’s where they left the state of things.
In my dad’s world, that’s enough to be considered family.
As we walk down the dim hallway of a mansion that doesn’t feel like home anymore, Garrison asks me, “Who’s his least favorite?”
“Connor Cobalt.”
Garrison nods once and doesn’t ask why. He’s heard about their history. Even though my dad apologized to Connor, he’s still not a fan of Connor Cobalt. Why? Simple.
Jonathan Hale hates to be bested, and only one man has ever really beaten him. And only one man probably ever will.
[ 34 ]
November 2023
The Abbey Loft
Philadelphia
CONNOR COBALT
I wash dishes with Ryke after Thanksgiving dinner. The dishwasher broke before we could start the first load, so we dry them by hand. I don’t have to follow his gaze to know where his eyes land.
“The more you stare at her, the more she won’t sit down.” I pass him a plate to dry, but he’s too distracted by a twenty-week pregnant Rose. My annoyance slowly creeps towards the surface, and I shove most down. “In layman’s terms, which you clearly need, bottle your fucking concern.”
I flip the plate in front of his face.
He snaps out of it and rips the dish from my hand. “I did five minutes ago, and she’s still fucking standing.” We have the same goal. Make sure Rose is comfortable. The issue: Ryke can’t grasp the interworking of Rose’s mind, not even as I attempt to coach him.
I’m the best tutor, so the failure is all his.
“You can’t treat her any differently than you usually do.” Dishware clinks together as I set more dirtied bowls in the sink basin.
“I’m usually fucking concerned.”
“I assure you, not like this.” We’re all treating this baby like it’s our first one. The only advantage is that I understand Ryke. I understand Rose. I understand them all better than they understand each other. I also understand Daisy, who has been the shining light of Rose’s pregnancy. They both nearly glow when they’re together.
Ryke holds my gaze. “Just fucking look at her and tell me she’s not in pain.”