Harper wasn’t the only thing that had kept me from coming back.
My father crossed his arms, his cerulean eyes narrowing with disdain—like I was the last person on earth he wanted to see. I probably was.
We hadn’t parted on good terms, and that bridge was never mended.
I was weeks away from starting college when our self-released EP went viral, and we scored the recording deal with a major Canadian Label, Maple Records. I was eighteen, didn’t need his permission, didn’t ask for it, and it sure as hell pissed him off when I bailed on college to tour around the country with my band.
He honestly thought he had the upper hand. He thought I wouldn’t leave Harper when I was wrapped up in her and had been for the better part of a year. We both underestimated my narcissistic, self-sabotaging nature—and the high of having everything I’d ever dreamed of within my reach.
My dad stared at me for several moments, the hard look in his eyes never once softening. Not that I expected it to.
It was the first time either of us had stood face to face since the night I left. Nine years of holidays I’d missed. Occasionally, I would catch a glimpse of him in the background when I FaceTimed with Mom, but he would never look at the iPad, and he never said a word. He’d shake his head and grumble, audibly slamming doors, cabinets, or whatever he could find to make his displeasure known. Mom always claimed he didn’t like technology; that he wanted to see me face to face, but I knew it was bullshit.
It was clear he hadn’t forgotten, either.Fuck him, I thought, meeting his gaze resolutely and clenching my jaw with controlled aggravation. I didn’t come back for him, or his approval. I came back to my mom and my little sister.
Finally, he grunted, stepping aside to reluctantly let me in. I had his jaw, nose, dark hair, and his stormy, changeable blue eyes. I also had his inability to express emotions adequately. As a teenager, I hadn’t known what he was thinking any more than he knew what I was thinking. With our tempers, it made for an explosive reaction when our anger collided—which was often.
“Michael? Who is it?” I turned my head at the sound of my mother’s voice, watching as she walked down the stairs. She froze when she saw me standing in the hallway. “Calum!”
“Hey, Ma,” I said, smiling at her. The reason I came back made it a challenge.
Mom walked the rest of the way down the stairs. I set my guitar case down and dropped the duffle bag I was carrying, straightening just in time to wrap my arms around her. She hugged me back tightly. “You’re here.”
“Of course, I am.”
“A little late, don’t you think?” Dad’s voice was as hard as his gaze had been, and I stiffened in my mother’s arms.
My eyes narrowed at him, anger bitter on my tongue. I could have come home more, that was true. But it went both ways—he could have supported me in any capacity other than shunning me, but he hadn’t.
“Not now, Michael,” Mom snapped, lifting her head to scowl at him. “I don’t want to listen to the two of you bickering when I’d do anything to give my dad one last hug. You both havegotto stop this hostility. We’re a family, and right now, we’re hurting—so let’s not add to it.”
Dad had the decency to look chided, so I let it go. For my mom, for Gramps, and for myself. Maybe even a little for him, too.
Nodding stiffly, my father retreated to the living room. The silence was safer.
“Mom, look…I—“
As always, I couldn’t seem to get the words to arrange in harmony. My tongue felt thick and heavy in my mouth. Mom seemed to know. She squeezed me tighter before releasing me.
My mother had never faulted me for leaving, but I knew she missed me, and I knew the rift between the two of us hurt her a great deal. But my father and I were cut from the same cloth; built of sheer bullheaded stubbornness and stony silences before explosive collisions. Apologizing didn’t come easy to either of us, especially when it came to one another.
“Are you hungry? I could make you a sandwich.” She said, stepping back and wiping her damp cheeks with the back of her hand.
“Thanks, but I’m okay. I ate earlier. I’m pretty exhausted though. I’ll probably crash for a bit. If that’s all right.”
“That’s fine, honey,” she replied, smiling softly and holding my gaze as if she was afraid that I’d disappear again if she looked away. “Gramps left you a letter. I put it on the desk in your bedroom.”
I froze, eyes prickling. Blinking slowly to clear them, I nodded. My hands shook as I bent to pick my duffle bag and guitar case up. “All right. I’ll uh, go have a look.”
She nodded, her hand reaching out to gently squeeze mine. “We’re glad you are home, Cal.”
I glanced over my shoulder, cocking a brow toward my father. He was sitting in his armchair with a permanent scowl on his weathered face, can of beer in his hand. The urge to snort my disbelief was strong, but I fought it, not wanting to upset her any further.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, shouldering my bag and picking up my guitar. I pressed a kiss to her forehead and climbed up the stairs, pausing in the hallway at the top of the landing.
Light spilled from my little sister’s bedroom. Her door was open, and she was lying on her bed, headphones on as she read from a textbook. Her music was loud enough that I could hear it from the hallway, and she was oblivious to my arrival. She was singing softly. Like our grandmother and mother before her, my little sister had talent, although she kept hers locked up tight.
I stopped at her door, setting my things against the wall before knocking loudly on the frame. My body cast a shadow on her floor and Connor looked up, her eyes widening with surprise to see me there.
