“That’s what they tell you?” Angus swung a glance at me and Patrick. “That’s because they don’t want to hurt your little feelings. They know you’re selling snake oil. They know sustainability is for hippie queers who think slapping some solar panels on a roof makes you an architect.”
We did not have time for this today. I stepped forward. “Angus—”
“Don’t fuckin’ Angus me. Not in the mood for your shit today, boy,” he yelled, the lumber wagging in his hand. “You know he’s an impostor. Tell the princess how you and Patrick have final say over his designs. Tell him how the contractors go to you with their problems because they know the princess can’t answer them. Tell him that all he does is pick out fancy window dressings while everyone else covers for him.”
Regardless of whether I handled all of Sam’s structural analysis, I wasn’t selling him out to Angus.
“No, he’s not, and you have to—”
“Matt comes to your rescue now, princess? Always did need someone to rescue you. That whore never wanted you, but she spoiled you, turned you into one ripe mama’s boy, and then your cunty sister picked up where the whore left off. Is that what did it? All those women, they turned you into this.”
Angus waved the two-by-four at Sam’s slim navy suit and sneered at his pink plaid Oxford, paisley tie, and pocket square.
“Or is it because you look like a little girl? And you dress up in faggoty colors because you like pretending you’re a girl? Does your boyfriend like this? I bet he likes hearing all about the window dressings and solar panels, too.”
“While this soliloquy is truly impressive, I don’t see a point in listening much longer. Your information is inaccurate, and I’ve told you a hundred times, I’m not gay, and claiming I am is not an insult.”
Angus stalked Sam. With every step he pushed one end of the two-by-four into Sam’s chest until he hit a wall. Even hunched, Angus was still a bit bigger than Sam and the look in his eyes was pure hatred. Sam was in decent shape but he struggled with more medical issues than I could count—childhood diabetes, asthma, anxiety attacks, digestion problems—and I wasn’t watching while Angus exacerbated any of it.
“You’ve never been good enough for my name, and you never will be. You’re a liar, and an abomination, and hell’s too kind for filth like you. You never should have been born. All these problems,” Angus gripped Sam’s wrist and twisted his medical alert bracelets, “were God’s way of trying to erase his mistake.”
Dropping Riley’s elbow, I advanced on Angus. I grabbed the lumber, but he was stronger than I expected, and it smashed into my jaw. I staggered backward and heat rushed to my skin, the coppery flavor of blood spraying over my tongue.
“Who the fuck do you think you are? You, Mr. Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Mr. Big Shot Engineer. You’re a fuckin’ joke, just as bad as that faggotty-ass princess. You don’t know the first thing about art or preserving history. You just know steel and concrete.”
I cocked my head and rolled my eyes, ignoring the pain radiating from my jaw. I reminded myself to stay detached, and ignore the bait Angus dangled. “As always, it’s great to see you too, but we have other properties to check today.”
Gesturing to Sam and Riley, I stuffed the plans back in their canister and we moved toward the door where I could only hope to find some ice and plenty of beer.
“I hear you got yourself a girl. A pretty little blonde thing. Better watch yourself,” he warned. “They’re all whores. They lie and they cheat and they spread their legs the second you turn your back. Maybe I’ll introduce myself to her.”
The canister slipped from my fingers, bouncing against the plywood floor as I crossed the room in three strides and yanked Angus up by his lapels. Bile teased the back of my throat, and panic warred with rage in my veins.
“Don’t you dare say a word about her. You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” I whispered, my words icy and quiet.
A disgusted scowl pulled at Angus’s lips. “You gonna hit me? You beat up senior citizens?”
Narrowing my eyes at Angus, I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back. “You aren’t worth the energy.” Glancing up and down at my father, I searched for a reason why my mother would have wanted anything to do with the sniveling, derisive man in front of me. She was recently immigrated to this country when they married, and only nineteen, sixteen years younger than my father. I wanted to believe she saw something good in him. “What would Mom say if she could see you today?”
“This is over,” Patrick hissed. He pointed at Angus. “You’re drunk, and one more bullshit stunt from you and I’m putting you in a seventy-two-hour psych hold.”
“You and that cunt of a sister of yours, you think you’re so fucking smart. You’d be nothing without me. This business, everything, you owe it to me.”
Angus clasped the front of his coat together and picked up the two-by-four. He sidestepped me, and I let him go. He stopped at the door, his back to us. He sighed, and his shoulders slumped, his head hanging forward. For a split second, I thought my father heard me—trulyheardme after all these years. Then he pivoted and speared me with his cold, empty eyes. “She’d say that’s what you get for being the rotten pieces of garbage who let her die.”
The door slammed behind him.
Rationally, I knew Angus was a vindictive, angry drunk who needlessly blamed us for Mom’s death, and he was hell-bent on getting his pounds of flesh from each of us.
Emotionally, I couldn’t claim the same level of objectivity. It was all too easy to drown in Angus’s loathing, and I knew Sam already spent the better parts of most evenings doing some version of that. I found myself struggling to tread water, and as I looked around the room, I knew I wasn’t alone.
For a few minutes, we were silent. I saw Patrick’s fingers flying over his phone, and I knew he was either updating Shannon or calling his buddy at the State Police to make good on that psych hold. Riley’s hands dug deep in his pockets, and he kept his eyes trained on the ground. Rubbing a hand against his chest, Sam stared out the window.
“All right,” Patrick muttered as he gestured toward me. “Broken or bruised?”
“Bruised.”
Patrick glanced around the room, confused. “Who drove?”
