My throat feels like lead, but I manage to find my words just fine. “It’ll make me sick. I’m on meds.” Thank God I took my pill this morning.
His jaw clenches tight, and he resigns by pouring himself a glass and sinking down in the chair across from mine. I take my hand off the crystal and flip it over.
“Are you here for money?” he asks, jumping straight to the point.
I stare at the table and gather my thoughts. Why am I here? For two things, neither of which revolve around finances or lack thereof.
He continues off my silence anyway, and I let him. “I know what I said before you went away—”
“Do you?” I snap.
“Yes, Loren. And maybe if you gave me some time to process everything, things would have turned out fucking differently.” I’m not sure what kind of different he means. Not going to rehab? Having a relationship with him? Did he just take away my trust fund out of impulse? But if that was true, he would have given me money when I returned to Philly. He would have made a better effort to fix things.
My eyes narrow at the table in deep thought. He did try to call me. He was reaching out. I was the one closing him off—because Ryke told me to. He said I shouldn’t open that door again, but maybe he was wrong. Maybe my father has been right all along.
He swishes his drink before downing it in one gulp.
My throat goes dry.
“You’re my son,” he says definitively, “and I’m not going to let you struggle because you make bad decisions.”
“Rehab wasn’t a bad decision.”
“It was a waste of fucking time,” he refutes. “Drinking isn’t a problem, and you’ll do it again. Don’t fucking fool yourself.” Before I open my mouth to retort, he says, “But that’s beside the point.” He pulls out his checkbook. “I want to help you get on your feet again.”
“I don’t want your cash,” I say, even though I know that’s a stupid choice. Because, really, what am I going to do? I can’t keep living off Lily’s inheritance. Sooner or later, I’m going to have to figure what I’m good at and make a living without crawling back to my father for rent.
“This isn’t the time to start being humble,” he tells me. “You can’t try to be sober and work a job at the same time.”
“What do you think normal people do? Not everyone has rich parents to fall back on.”
“You do,” he says. “And why the hell do you think I work so fucking much?”
“You have nothing better to do.”
He glares. “I do it so that you won’t have to struggle like this. So stop being a fucking idiot and take the damn money.”
I believe him, even though Ryke would probably tell me that I shouldn’t—that Jonathan Hale spends hours at his office because he’s miserable and alone and likes all the riches that he can afford to buy. There’s a stipulation attached to that check too. I’ll be indebted to him in some way. It’s why he took away my trust fund in the first place. It’s more than just him wanting me to enroll in college again. He wants that power over my life—to tell me what to do, to mold me as the son he always dreamed I would be. But I’m just a big fucking disappointment.
“That’s not what I’m here for,” I say, a weight bearing on my chest.
He sighs and shuts his checkbook. He pours another glass. “What is it then?” He’s more intrigued than he lets on. The curiosity glimmers in his dark eyes.
I take a breath, staring at the overturned, empty glass in front of me. Booze would help, but I have to do this alone. “I want her name.”
“Who?” His voice has an edge, telling me that he knows exactly who I’m referring to.
“My real mother.” The woman he had an affair with. The reason why he split from Sara Hale, Ryke’s mom.
“She doesn’t want to see you,” he says coldly.
“And I don’t believe you.”
He lets out a low laugh and taps the table with his lighter, a cigar box not far away. “I knew you’d want answers. Where she lived, what she looked like, but they’ll only upset you. And I didn’t want to see your face twist.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She didn’t want you, Loren. I’m telling you not to waste your fucking time.”
How can I believe him after all these years lying to me? But a part of me digests this information as truth.
“There it is.” He brings the glass to his lips. I realize that my face has contorted in a multitude of emotions. Hurt, the strongest of them.