If not for Cora’s file, I might have come here only for my father’s help with the Vireon business, but the reality is different.
I should have come here to reconnect with my father. And now, as I approach him, I’m glad I’m here. Still dreading the conversation, but what is the worst-case scenario? We’ll return to the status quo, which would suck, but I have my life here now, anyway.
“I had a call, and it took longer…” Good job, starting with a lie.
He stands up and wraps me in an embrace. I tense. I don’t remember the last time we hugged.
“It’s good to see you, son,” he rasps.
I pat his back before he steps back. “It’s good to see you, Dad.”
The biggest surprise? It really is good to see him. I was prepared for the wave of guilt, blame, shame. Fuck, I was even ready for a stern dressing-down or an argument.
I wasn’t ready to deal with the flood of sap that cruises through my veins at that moment. I didn’t realize how much I missed him.
I’ve been so buried in my shame, in avoiding the issue, and running away from it, that I didn’t allow myself to feel the hurt of our estrangement.
“I took the liberty of choosing the wine. Thisconversation is perhaps more suitable for a tumbler of whiskey, but we’re at a steakhouse.”
That’s my dad alright, always leaning into expectations and norms, even if it’s against his own preferences.
He gestures to the waiter, who approaches with the decanter and pours me a glass. It’s an organic Zinfandel from a small vineyard in Napa Valley, and my mind immediately wanders to the ginger nymph who has been escaping me.
Would she like this vintage?
What is she doing?
Why did she run away?
The last question is returning with annoying frequency.
I raise my glass and take a sip, desperately thinking of a way to lead this conversation. My father is the only man I know who makes me search for words. It has been like that forever.
The thing is, when Senior speaks, everyone listens. I grew up in the light of that awe and respect he so effortlessly commands. As a result, I always measure my words with a care that borders on self-censorship.
Like I’m trying to mimic his authority while second-guessing every word that leaves my mouth. Like every syllable is a test I didn’t study for, but can’t affordto fail.
The lifelong habit is only emphasized given the circumstances of our encounter. I fucked up. I left. I ignored him. How does one start a conversation after that? Fuck.
“I’m sorry I made you feel that leaving was your only option.” He dives right into it.
“You didn’t—” Or maybe he did. Who knows anymore? But what staggers me is his apology. Whatever happened to the Stones never apologizing?
“Look, Alexander, you have a brilliant combination of intelligence merged with street smarts. You have a drive that pushes you beyond and above. But we didn’t realize how smart you were early on, and you went through the school system with such ease, you never learned one important thing.”
I frown in question.
“You never learned what it is to fail. We had enough worries with your siblings—”
“It’s not your fault…” Are we going to dance around it and blame it on the school system?
“Maybe not, but I think we should have challenged you more. Instead, you learned that everything comes easy to you, and when you faced your first challenge—”
“You lost a company because of me,” I snap, finally naming the issue that had spun in my head since I’d caused the situation but had never verbalized.
He raises his eyebrows, and then frowns. I’m notsure if it’s because I’ve never interrupted him when he speaks, let alone this many times, or because my admission surprised him.
“The company is just an asset. I replaced that several times over since then.” He takes a sip of his wine, looking away. “I lost way more.”
