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1
Roan
“I’m not havingthis discussion with you again.” My father slammed his briefcase shut and locked it, along with any hope of this exchange ending peacefully.
“No, of course not. Why would you want to have a reasonable, adult conversation about anything?” I knew provoking him wouldn’t help my case in the long run, but I didn’t care about that right now. I was tired of him running every time I tried to talk to him, because having a real heart-to-heart with your twenty-two year old son was apparently the most horrifying thing on the planet. It’s why I never even bothered trying to tell him I was gay. His head probably would have exploded.
“Roan, I have to be on a plane in—” he punched his left arm into the air, glaring at the Chopard on his wrist “—one hour.”
“You said you were leaving at six.”
“They moved the flight up. Is that ok with you?”
“No,” I huffed in exasperation. “I came here to talk to you! I just sat in traffic for over an hour and a half to get here in time.”
“Schedule something with Joyce and we’ll talk about it when I get back. And take that shit out of your face before your mother sees it.”
Snorting, I rolled my eyes, catching a glimpse of the stud in my right nostril that had him so pissed. It was either that, or the small, silver hoops in my ears. All things considered, a couple piercings were the least rebellious form of body modifications available these days.
“She’s not coming home from Phoenix until Sunday, remember?” I shot back, half tempted to go home and switch the stud for a more noticeable hoop that very minute.
He didn’t acknowledge the fact he wasn’t aware of his wife’s whereabouts. The calculator that served as his brain was probably too busy tallying up my mother’s latest expenses. Flight, luxury retreat, shopping, meals. She’d easily blow tens of thousands by week’s end.
“Do you always have to argue with me?” he snapped after a moment of tense silence.
That hardly qualified as arguing, but pointing it out definitely would have. So, I folded my arms over my chest and watched him gather up the rest of his belongings from the desk. “What if I just do it? What if I up and leave one of these days?”
He scoffed, not even bothering to look up. “Be my guest.”
Ouch.
I swallowed thickly, entirely unprepared for how much that stung. Shaking my head, I tried to recover some semblance of confidence. “It’s really more of a courtesy at this point. I’m graduating in three weeks. I don’tneedyour permission to defer grad school.”
“No, you just need my money.” Dad shot me a cold look, moving for his office door.
Anger surged to the surface, obliterating what composure I had. My carefully rehearsed speech crumbled to bits under the weight of his indifference. “I don’t needshitfrom you.”
He lingered in the door, throwing an unimpressed look over his shoulder. “Whatever you say.” With that parting barb, he walked out, barking at Joyce on his way.
“Such an asshole,” I hissed under my breath, tromping out of the office. Joyce and I nearly collided as she rounded the corner. She shrieked and dropped a stack of files, papers scattering over the marble floors.
“Oh, I’m sorry, honey,” she said, touching my cheek gently with a wrinkled hand before reaching down for the first folder. “I didn’t see you there.”
“No, it’s my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.” I dropped to one knee and scooped up as many papers as possible, trying to keep them in some sort of order.
“How did it go with your dad?” She sounded so hopeful, I felt like an asshole for snuffing it out.
“Same as always,” I replied with a grim smile, handing her the stack. “If it’s not about Georgetown, he doesn’t want to hear it.”
“What does your mom say?”
“‘Know your truth.’” Rolling my eyes, I grabbed the rest of the folders and stood. “Whatever the hell that is supposed to mean. I’m guessing she picked it up from her latest ‘guru.’”
“Well that’s a load of horse crap.” Her coral lips twisted into a frown. “Did you tell him about the senior showcase next week?”
I leveled a look at her. Music, and anything to do with music, was at the very top of the list of things Dad refused to discuss. It didn’t matter that I was actually good at composingorperforming, or that I’d already gotten jobs collaborating with musicians in Chicago, or that I was currently learning the production side as well. To Phillip Walter Sinclair, the controlling interest holder and chairman of the board for Northern Illinois Bank & Trust, the only thing that mattered was money and amassing it in droves.
“Well, I’ll be there,” Joyce said with a smile.
