“Goddammit, I provide for you!” Less than a minute for him to snap. It’s a new record. “I give you more than enough to keep a roof over your head, food in your stomach. Don’t you dare disrespect me like that. We raised you better.”
I swallow, my gaze fixed on my window, except I see nothing but fog. That’s all there is between him and me—thick, cloudy-as-shit fog, seeping under my skin like poison. I don’t respond until I’m confident I can keep my voice steady and calm. “You provide for me, huh?”
“Damn straight, I do.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “Like when we lost the house and you took off without me? When I was a sixteen-year-old kid and I had no one to turn to, nowhere to go—were you providing for me then?”
The line goes quiet. “I’m not—I’m not trying to excuse it, what I did,” he mutters. “But you remember everything that was going on at the time, don’t you? Everything we were dealing with? And you know, you have to know ... I still regret that.” At least he has the decency to sound remorseful.
But words are not enough. They will never be enough. He can regret it all he wants, leaving me. Leavingus. The fact is, he still hasn’t come back.
I exhale slowly, willing myself to stay calm. “Do you know how close I was to being turned over to the foster system? To being kicked out of school for good? If it wasn’t for Hen—” I stop, swiping my palm over my mouth. No way I’m mentioning Henry aloud to this man. “If it wasn’t for someone looking out for me, I would have been too.”
“Shit.” He pushes out a breath. “How many times do you need me to apologize? You gonna hang that over my head the rest of our lives?”
“What do you think? Is one lifetime too generous?”
“That’s enough. I will not have my son speaking to me like this, dammit! You will speak to me with respect!”
Silence hangs in the air between us, stifled and suffocating.
“I will respect you,” I say, my tone low, “when you earn my respect.”
A heavy sigh pours through the line. When he speaks again, his voice cracks. “Hell, I’ve been trying,” he whispers. “I’ve been trying for almost two solid years, son.”
Fuck, I hate him. I hate his voice, his up-and-down roller coaster of emotions. But mostly, I hate that I still can’t stand to hear him like this. Broken and defeated. I just want his anger. His resentment. I want the son of a bitch I now know he is.
“Do you not see that?” he croaks. “Do you not see how much money I wire to your account every month? Doesn’t that cover everything you guys need?”
Turmoil digs into my gut—sharp, stabbing my insides—and I actually wince. My gaze drops to my shoes, and I rub the back of my head. “It’s been enough for her,” I grumble. “Yeah.”
“And you?”
When I say nothing, he curses under his breath.
“Don’t tell me you still won’t touch my money, son.” Another curse. “You don’t have a clue how hard it is for me to swing payments like this, especially lately.”
“Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I never wanted your damn money.” I wouldn’t touch that dirty money with a ten-foot pole, regardless of who it came from, and I sure as hell won’t support his addictions. But that’s the thing about gambling: when you’re winning, it doesn’t feel like an addiction. Not to him, anyway, but Mom and me? We always felt it. Between the gambling and the women, he was constantly switching out one addiction for another.
And for a while, I was too wrapped up in my own newfound lust to realize addiction runs deep in my blood.
Until his ripped us apart.
My jaw ticks as I walk to the sofa bed, collapsing onto it like I’ve just run a marathon. “So this is why you called after a year and a half of nothing? Your conscience feel better now?”
I hear a swallow through the line, and for a split second, I almost feel guilty. My chest twists, trying to open up for him.
But then he opens his mouth again. “Well, um ...”
I narrow my eyes, waiting for it.
“You said ... you said you don’t use all the money I send you. So—so it’s still there? Building up in your account?”
A crushing weight closes any gap in my chest there may have been for him.
“Because I ... Well, like I said, it’s been a bit of a struggle lately, and your old man could use a little hand—”
“Hey, Conway?”
