Cooper adjusts the sleeves of his pressed shirt “Yeah, I brought her the designs I’ve been working on, and guess what? She fucking loves them. She believes they’re better than anything you’ve come up with . . . you narcissistic asshole. You’re not the only one who knows the business, but that would mean admitting you’re not perfect, and that’s just too goddamn hard for you, isn’t it? The perfect older brother who does everything right. Who pleases his parents—”
“I had to please them,” Ford yells. “We were foster kids, Cooper. If I didn’t, then we were going to be shipped off to another house. Of course I’ve spent my goddamn life pleasing them so they always know they chose right.”
“That’s enough.” Dad’s voice booms from behind me, and I jump to the side in fright. “That is . . . enough.” Gripping the edge of the wall, he glares at all of us, his domineering presence filling the space. “You are done, do you hear me? This night . . . is done.”
“Dad—” Ford says, but Dad raises a strong hand, silencing him.
“Your mother has sent everyone home, and she’s waiting in the car for me. I expect you three to clean up this sorry excuse for a party, make the store look exactly how you found it, and then report back to our house immediately. We have something to say to you three.”
With that, he turns around and heads out the door.
“Fuck,” Cooper mutters, leaning against the wall.
Yup . . . fuck is right.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
FORD
I’ve never felt so sick in my entire life.
Seeing the disappointment in my dad’s face, hearing the authority in his voice . . . it brought me back to the first time he ever yelled at me. I can’t even remember what I’d done, but I was in trouble and I knew it, but I had no idea what was going to happen. That’s how it feels right now: the unknown is lurking over us as we drive over to our childhood home in Cooper’s car.
We haven’t said a word to each other.
We haven’t even bothered to look at one another.
What’s the point?
All we do is argue, fight, blame one another.
No wonder Mom and Dad sent everyone home from the party—they weren’t only embarrassed; they were ashamed.
Of us.
Cooper pulls into the driveway and puts the car in park. Together, we get out of the car and head to the front door, which Dad is holding open for all of us. Heads bent, we make our way into the house and into the living room, where we all take seats on the couch. Mom is pacing the living room, wearing a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, uncommon for this time of the night. Normally she’d be in her pajamas and a robe.
When Dad enters, it feels like the room shrinks to one-tenth its size.
I want to speak up. I want to apologize. I want to try to make this all better, but that’s what I always do—and I have a feeling that isn’t going to work this time.
With his bushy eyebrows arched at a menacing angle, Dad stares us all down, pressing his hands into his hips. “This family was built on love, acceptance, and supporting one another . . . no matter what. Your mother and I have strived to instill those values in you. We have spent countless hours of our lives providing for you, giving you opportunities to not only succeed but to learn. We’ve clothed you, fed you, given you a roof over your head, and you have been the lucky few whose parents were able to bring a family business into the mix that doesn’t just succeed but thrives. But the reason that business has been so successful is that it capitalizes on family values, creating adventures with the ones we love. How the hell do you think the public would feel, our customers, our investors, if they knew the family who built Watchful Wanderers is a complete joke?”
Mom sniffs and dabs at her eyes with a tissue.
Fuck.
FUCK!
I hate seeing Mom cry.
“Do you know why we wanted this anniversary party?” When no one answers, Dad continues: “It wasn’t just to celebrate the love and life your mom and I have shared over the past few decades, but it was to bring you all together again. Over time, we’ve seen the way you’ve detached from each other. The jealousies that have festered, the insecurities that have only worsened. It’s disgusting, and it’s not the way we raised you. We thought it was a phase, that you three would come back together at some point, but apparently we were wrong.”
Dad takes a deep breath, and Mom comes up to him, putting a hand on his back as encouragement.
“I’m not getting any younger, nor am I getting better,” Dad says, his voice rough. “We decided to move, not because of Cooper’s encouragement, but because we had to face the truth. I’m sick, and simple tasks are becoming harder and harder for me to handle. And even though it pains me to admit that I’m not the man I used to be, I know it’s time to really seek help if I want to keep up with this disease. The Parkinson’s Fitness Project is based in Seattle, and I’ve already signed myself up for classes. Living in Seattle will limit the ferry rides, since being on a boat isn’t easy for me, and I’ll be able to make some progress in managing this.”