His face is unreadable in the darkness, half-turned away, and I don’t know how to process this new information. “But she… you were together.”
“It lasted for a few months, and I spent every moment terrified. She was furious I spent all my time in the office when I had a family at home. When I inherited Dad’s business, it was already worth hundreds of millions. She didn’t understand why I needed to work at all.”
The image is shaped like a man but filled with numbers and currency, papers spilling from the edges. I’ve seen it before, I’ve seen all her work, but never made the connection.
“I can’t remember if I told you, but Dad had me when he was in his sixties. He used a surrogate, then farmed me out to nannies and housekeepers and office staff. Being his successor felt like an item he ticked off on a checklist.” He reaches out, squeezing the back of my neck. “I promised myself I’d do better, then repeated all his mistakes.”
For minutes, we both stare at the work, my tired eyes finding new details, new links identifying the subject as my father. A piece of information about them I hadn’t known, and it feels like my mother’s back in the room, living, breathing, whispering secrets in her teasing voice.
“She said if I forced her to raise our son alone, she would do that, but not in my house with my ring on her finger and my expectation she’d be there every time I bothered to come home. We went to counselling, and I hated every second, but she needed to know I wanted you both more than I wanted the companies to succeed.”
He puffs out a soft breath, his head falling back until he stares at the ceiling.
“If she could see how I’ve abandoned you these last few years, she’d kick my arse for leaving you to deal with everything on your own.”
“You don’t have to apologise. I’m the fuck-up.”
“We’re both fuck-ups.” He nudges his knee into mine, lightly teasing. “Another trait you inherited from me.” Then his voiceturns serious. “But I didn’t want to be that man back then and I don’t want to be him now. You shouldn’t be the one paying the cost because I find making money easy and sustaining relationships hard.”
He blows out a sigh, rubbing his hands over his face.
“I’m not surprised you’re good at manipulation and I won’t pretend I don’t do the same in business every day, but you don’t do those things to your friends. Especially not the girl you love. Relationships can never be just about what you want. When it’s good with someone, respect comes first.”
The words are a soft chastisement given with more care than I deserve. “The stupid thing is, I didn’t do half of what she said. I’m not that clever.”
“But when you find out one thing’s fake, it’s natural to assume none of it’s real. Magicians don’t include actual magic in their shows.”
The guilt swells until I can’t bear to keep talking about Avon. About how unlikely it is I’ll ever win her back.
I tug at my hair until the roots protest, staring around the moonlit studio. “Why did you shut Mum away in here?”
He shakes his head and I think that’s going to be the only answer, then he clears his throat. “After she died, I had so little of her left, it didn’t feel right to leave her art out in the world, spread so thinly. At first it was good, seeing the pieces from years before. The ones I’d forgotten about. Then it became a game. Something to occupy me so I never had to stop and think. Now…?” He shrugs. “Your girl basically told me I should let it out into the world again.”
My voice cracks as I say, “She’s not my girl.”
“No.”
“Mum would hate this.”
“Yeah.” His voice fills with sadness. “She’d hate this.”
Silence settles in the room and it’s peaceful, but I’ve listened to silence too much over the past few years. It hasn’t solved anything. It hasn’t given me clarity. “I don’t know what to do.”
Dad shuffles closer, putting his arm around me, and I close my eyes, unable to recall the last time we spent this much time in the same room. “When I fought with your mother, an apology always worked wonders.”
“Sorry I ruined your life, then ruined it again, then ruined it—”
“Specifics will help. Self-improvement is a job, so treat it like one. Write everything you’ve done. Sort through to decide what you’re responsible for, then work out what you need to prevent it happening again. Implement that. Work out how to make amends if you can and implement that, too.”
“And what if she doesn’t want any of that?”
“You do it anyway because it’s not for Avon, or not just for Avon. It’s for you. To get you closer to being the person you want to become.”
“She’s never going to speak to me again.”
His voice softens. “Maybe not but that only matters if you make yourself into a person who deserves a second chance.”
I bury my head in my hands and his arm squeezes tighter. “They loved her tonight. Anyone could see she belonged.” There’s a long pause, then, “If an offer comes through, do you want me to tell her?”
