He’s standing by the desk—pressed slacks, sweater, mug of black coffee—calm and collected like always. But his eyes are on me. Searching.
“Son…” He sits in the chair across from mine. “You’re spiraling.”
“No shit,” I mutter into my hands.
He gives a small exhale. “Thanksgiving. Remember? Your mother expects us dressed.”
“I’m not going,” I say without looking up.
“You are,” he replies gently. “It’ll cause a scene if you don’t.”
“She’s having it catered,” I remind him.
“She canceled. Decided hosting three people in a mansion was depressing. Now we’re going to the club. Buffet. Full audience. You know how she is.”
Yeah. I know.
I rake a hand through my hair. “Dad… I can’t deal with her. Not today.”
He studies me a moment. Really studies me.
“Is this about the girl?” he finally asks.
A humorless laugh cracks from my throat.
“The girl. Yeah, Dad. The girl. Jade. The one you pretended didn’t exist for months.”
He peers at me over his glasses. “I don’t pretend, Leo. I observe. And I stay out of your love life unless?—”
“Unless I knock someone up, yeah, I know,” I snap.
His brow lifts. “Don’t speak to me like that.”
I inhale. “Sorry. I just… Dad, I’m in love.”
He sits back, arms crossing.
“You’re eighteen,” he says.
“And what, that means my feelings are fake?”
“It means real love feels different when you’re older.”
Now I look up.
“So you’re saying you don’t love Mom.”
His expression changes. Tightens. Pain flickers there. Old pain.
Something ugly and private.
I freeze.
“Dad?”
He looks into the fire before speaking.
“I had an affair, Leo.”
