Something about him talking about Betsy like that rubs me the wrong way. “Seriously, man. Stop it.”
“Oh-ho! We havefeelingsabout little storm cloud, do we?” he asks, voice booming in the quiet boutique.
“You’re obnoxious.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
I give him a look meant to get him to drop the subject, but it only fuels his curiosity. He opens his mouth—probably to say more crap that will piss me off—but gets interrupted by the bell ringing. We both look to the front door and see my father filling up the doorway.
Dad is six foot four, just like me, both of us football players back in the day. He’s lost some of his muscle in recent years, mostly because of aging and because he doesn’t prepare actual meals for himself now that Mama’s gone. His hair is just as thick as always, though it’s lined with grays that started at the temples and have now taken over the entirety of his head. Dad sneers at the racks of women’s clothing, then turns his gaze on us. The disapproving look doesn’t get any better when he sees Deuce with me. He’s never really liked my best friend, probably because Deuce has never hidden his dislike of my father.
“Silas. Deuce.” Dad walks into the boutique and taps his knuckles against the counter, surveying the wreckage of our lunch. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“No worries, Mr. Dub. I was on my way out anyway.” Deuce gives my father the fakest smile I’ve ever seen. He knows howmuch my father hates that nickname. Then he snatches up his suitcoat, salutes me behind my father’s back, and saunters out.
I shove the sandwich wrappings into the bags and toss them in the trash can behind me. Brushing off my hands, I get right to the point. If I can get him out of here quickly, maybe I won’t have indigestion. “What did you need, Dad?”
Instead of getting to the point, he swivels his head and checks out the display by the register. I could swear his face loses a few of the harsh lines. Just for a moment. “Your mama always loved bringing home a new necklace every week.”
The guard I put up every time we talk softens a bit. “I remember. It’s partially why I keep the jewelry display.”
Dad clears his throat and frowns at me, all softness gone. “There’s no one here, Silas.”
Okay, wow. So it’s going to be one of those conversations. “Nope. There’s usually a lull during the lunch hour.”
“I drove by earlier and there was no one here then either.” Dad sighs. “When are you going to let this thing go, Silas? It was Lia’s dream, not yours. Lia’s gone and this boutique needs to die a natural death too.”
I gape at him, anger and grief twisting my insides. “Why? Why can’t her dream live on? I think she’d love to see her friends still shopping here and enjoying the boutique she built with her blood, sweat, and tears.”
Dad glares at me for a few beats, then drops my gaze. Warning bells clang in my brain. He raps his knuckles on the countertop again. “If the boutique is not in the black by Christmas, I’m going to talk to Richmond down at the bank and encourage him to call in the loan.”
I drop both hands to the counter, the sound louder than I intended. “What the hell would you do that for?”
Dad’s gaze snaps back to mine. “Watch your language, son. I don’t care how old you are.”
I force my voice to soften. To not scream at him when all I want to do is punch him in his smug face. “You know how much this boutique means to me. Why would you call the loan?”
When I took over the boutique, I combed through all the financials, of course. Mama had taken out a loan from the bank to get the place renovated before opening. Dad hadn’t wanted to dip into their retirement for one of Mama’s “hobbies.” The bank gave her the loan, of course, given Dad being one of Richmond Brook’s best friends, but the terms had been less than favorable. It hadn’t been an issue making the payments when Mama was alive because the place had been a success.
“Because you’re not being sensible, Silas. I won’t stand by and watch my only son sit on the sidelines while his life swirls down the toilet all for a dream that was never his!”
Rage, the kind that burns bridges between family members, flares even hotter. “You know nothing about my dreams because you’ve never asked.”
Dad is unimpressed. “You have a finance degree. Not a fashion degree.”
“Finance degrees can be used for just about any business. You just assume I want to be in real estate because you are.”
“Oh, and that’s so bad? That real estate career paid for your college! Paid for a good life for you and your sister. Which you’d know about if you finally settled down and got married. You’d know the sacrifices I made.”
A headache blooms behind my eyes. “And I thank you for it. But I never asked you to pay for those things. I’m only asking you to listen to what I want for my own life.”
Dad leans in further, the knuckles on his fists digging into my counter turning white. “And what do you want, Silas? A struggling women’s boutique? To live paycheck to paycheck? I thought it was bad when you opened the coffee shop and wanted to be a professional barista. A woman’s clothing shop? Really?”He pushes off the counter and drops his fists to his side. “Your mama would be so disappointed if you don’t find love and settle down. That’s what she wanted most for you and Mary London. Not this place.” He twirls his finger around, indicating the boutique.
With a final nod, he turns around and walks away. My eyes shoot daggers at his broad back. I was taught never to talk back to my parents, but what he’s doing ain’t right. Mama was always the reasonable one, not Dad. God, I miss her. It hasn’t even been a year without her and we’re already at each other’s throats.
“By Christmas,” he reminds me, slipping out the door with a jingle of the bell.
I jam my fist to my mouth to keep from yelling. To keep the string of expletives inside my head and not shouted out loud. I end up closing the boutique early and going for a second run of the day. Pounding the pavement for five miles doesn’t solve any of my problems, but it does wear me out enough to shush the voice inside my head that says I might actually be that overgrown frat boy Betsy and Deuce accused me of.
