Page 118 of Sweet Surrender

I whip around and glare at him. It’s too early for this shit, and the last thing I want to do is throw a punch at my brother. “And what facts do I not want to face?”

“That she’s a good match for you. That the urge to go out and get shitfaced in a club is different now because you’d rather stay home and laugh with her.”

“You don’t know the first thing about my life, Nathaniel.”

“You’re right. I don’t. I wasn’t allowed to. First, because Dad took me and then because you hate me because he did.”

“We’re not doing this right now. I came here to see if there was an update about my case, if you’d talked to the judge. Can we stick with that?”

Nathaniel studies me, the muscles pulsing in his jaw. But I can see when he decides to let the fight go. Thank fuck for that.

“I touched base with him yesterday. He made some more favorable remarks about you—noting you hadn’t been in the news. I told him how I thought Hendrix was bringing out another side of you that maybe you didn’t even know you had, and even I was impressed with how much you’ve changed.”

I nod, waiting for the relief to come. It doesn’t.

“You could have told me this over the phone.”

“And miss your temper? What fun is that?” he teases.

“This is way too fucking early to put up with this shit.”

He clears his throat. “In seven or eight weeks, this could all be over. You’ll be in the clear. Able to fully rehearse for the tour, knowing you’ll get to go. The charade will be over. You’ll be free to go about your normal life.”

Free.

The word tastes bitter on my tongue.

“I’ve requested to set a court date with the judge for his ruling. I’ll let you know when it is. Or he might just make his decision and let us know.”

“Great.”

Nathaniel watches me carefully. “That’s good news, right?”

My smile is strained. “Yeah. Awesome.”

He exhales, shifting on the bench. “The other reason I wanted to see you was to talk to you about—”

“What did I fuck up now, Nathaniel?” Isn’t that what this always comes down to?

“We have to clear the air at some point.”

“Over?”

He blows out a sigh that’s equal parts frustration and dread. I hate the sound of both.

“The past. Our parents.”

“Or we just let it go.”

He clears his throat. “That won’t fix anything.”

“Fixes it just fine for me,” I lie.

“Look. Dad was . . . Dad was a dick for what he did. I’ve told you that from day one.”

I snort. “You mean the few weekends I was allowed to come live in your fantasy world where food was cooked, clothes were washed, and you were the kid and not the caretaker trying to hold everything together?”

He meets my eyes and I hate that there are tears welling in them. “Yeah. Exactly that.” He hangs his head and draws in a long breath. Despite my annoyance, I begrudgingly sit back down.