“No, I’m saying you better get your butt outside with that attitude.”
He immediately backed down. “I’m going to chop wood.”
“Good. I love you.”
He paused, softened, and gave his wife a kiss. “I love you.”
After he left, Stacy shook her head. “Boy, I hope that man knows better than to show up here. I don’t think I can hold Brom back.”
I covered my face with my hands. The mess was only going to get messier.
CHAPTER 44
KENT
By the time Phineas suggested we get some food, I was well past the point of making good decisions. The whiskey had done its job too well, dulling the sharp edges of my guilt and self-loathing but also making the world tilt at odd angles when I turned my head too fast.
“Come on, boy,” Phineas said, sliding off his barstool with surprising steadiness for someone who’d matched me drink for drink. “You need something in your stomach before you pickle yourself completely.”
I laughed, the sound coming out harsh. “Look who’s talking about pickling themselves.”
“At least I’m a professional,” he replied dryly. “You’re just an amateur drowning his sorrows.”
The irony wasn’t lost on me that Phineas Withers, the town drunk, the bitter old man everyone avoided, was the one playing my savior today. If my father could see me now, stumbling out of a dive bar in the middle of nowhere, being looked after by someone he would consider the dregs of society, he’d probably have a heart attack.
Phineas led me down the street to what looked like the only restaurant still open, a small diner called Mae’s that haddefinitely seen better decades. The vinyl booths were cracked and patched with duct tape, and the fluorescent lights flickered in a way that made my whiskey-addled brain feel seasick.
“Two burgers, extra fries,” Phineas told the waitress without consulting me. “And coffee. Lots of coffee.”
I slumped into the booth across from him, my head spinning. “You don’t have to babysit me.”
“Someone needs to,” he said. “Lord knows you’re not doing a very good job of it yourself.”
The coffee arrived first, black and strong enough to strip paint. I wrapped my hands around the mug, grateful for the warmth and the bitter taste that cut through the whiskey fog.
“So tell me about your father,” Phineas said, settling back in his seat like he was preparing for a long story.
“What about him?”
“What kind of man expects his son to lie to good people just to make a profit?”
I took another sip of coffee, considering the question. “The kind of man who built a billion-dollar empire from nothing. The kind who thinks sentiment is weakness and profit is the only thing that matters.”
“And you admire that?”
“I used to think I did.” The words came out easier than they should have, probably thanks to the alcohol. “Growing up, everything was about the business. Every conversation at dinner was about deals and acquisitions and market shares. My brothers and I were groomed from birth to carry on the family legacy.”
The burgers arrived, greasy, enormous things that looked like they could feed a small army. I picked at the fries, my appetite nonexistent despite Phineas’s insistence that I needed food.
“But you’re not like your brothers,” Phineas observed.
“No, I’m not.” I laughed bitterly. “They’re natural-born killers in the business world. They can make the hard decisions without losing sleep. They can destroy people’s lives in the name of profit and then go home to their families like nothing happened.”
“And you can’t.”
“Apparently not.” I took a bite of the burger, chewing mechanically. “My father always said I was the screw-up. I’m not cut out for business. He was probably right.”
Phineas studied me over his coffee cup. “Being human isn’t a character flaw, boy.”
