Maybe I was.
I drank the whiskey out of the cereal bowl to drown out the memory of someone who didn’t want me anyway.
CHAPTER 17
harley
The performative nature of my father’s funeral was depressing and borderline disgusting. My mother’s fake tears alone made me want to scream.And the way people believed her fake grief?I couldn’t put into words how that made me feel. Maybe once upon a time she’d loved him, or maybe not. I knew their marriage was a mutual social arrangement more than anything else, but to see how little she truly cared about him made my chest tighten.
I leaned over his casket, my forearms resting on the edge, as I stared at him. For the first time in… well, ever… he looked at peace. That broke me. No one should look more at peace in death than in life.
“Do you remember that summer you and I went on a weekend trip?” I whispered as if he could actually hear me. “We went six hours down the coast… we left one coastal tourist town to go stay in another coastal tourist town. That was kind of stupid if you think about it, but you didn’t want to come back.”
That much had been true. Dad had talked about staying and never leaving the vacation. The kid in me thought he was joking and had a blast with the fact that he even extended our vacation by a week. He was happier than I’d ever seen him during that trip. I couldn’t remember another time when Dad smiled that much.
Older me understood why.The weight of this life was crushing.
“I’m sorry we didn’t stay,” I said softly, my chest constricting painfully with grief. A hand touched my shoulder, and I glanced over to see my mother, her expression severe.
“That’s enough,” she clipped, her voice quiet and dangerous. “You’re making a scene, Harley.”
“I’m just saying goodbye.”
“We don’t have feelings where others can see,” she snapped.
“Unlike the ones you’re casually throwing around for sympathy,” I muttered.
“I’d watch your tongue, young man.” The threat was barely audible, but the hold she had on my arm spoke volumes.
I relented, any glimpse of my ability to fight her vanishing. I wasn’t good at standing up to her. Not really. There were fleeting moments where I tried, but that cold stare did me in every time.
Her grip on my arm remained tight until she guided me back to the pew. I sat between my mother and my grandfather andkept my head down. Just the proximity of both had my heart hammering frantically as the familiar ache of anxiety clawed to the surface.
“Chin up, boy,” my grandfather ordered under his breath. “You’re a Lowell. Act like it.”
See? Performative.It didn’t matter that it was my father’s funeral or that I had every right to be upset. The only thing that truly mattered was the image I portrayed to a room full of men that my father had worked with.
If I was being truly honest with myself… there was a fleeting moment I wished I was uptherewith him instead of stuck here with them.
I could only tolerate so many handshakes and ‘I look forward to seeing how you work’ comments before I was ready to crawl out of my own skin. The burden of loss was one I wanted to feel, not pretend it didn’t exist in the face of business. And so, I escaped at the first chance I got, claiming I didn’t feel well. Instead of going home, I drove across town toDriftwood Paradise.The place was a cheesy, themed bar that embraced beach life a little too literally, but it was a tourist spot. That meant people, ones I could easily lose myself in the hustle of and not feel bad for lying to my mother and grandfather.
As expected, the bar was busy, and I wove my way through the happy crowd, feeling like the odd one out. I didn’t have it in me to smile. The long driftwood bar itself was mostly empty at the end, and I slid onto a stool as far away from everyone as possible.
Head in my hands, I sighed, the weight of the day heavy on my shoulders. The funeral had turned into a parade of handshakes and measured condolences from men who spokeabout legacy like it mattered more than life. My father’s business associates—well, my future business associates—had circled me all afternoon. According to my grandfather, it was time I stepped up. It was time to prove that I could carry the Lowell name without buckling under it.
Already, I felt like I was buckling.
I hated it.
I hated how my father’s death had become a networking opportunity. I hated how I couldn’t mourn him without being reminded of what was expected of me next. I felt small in a room full of tailored suits and practiced smiles. I felt helpless in a way that had nothing to do with money or power and everything to do with not belonging to myself.
“What can I get you?” someone—probably a bartender—asked.
“I got this one, Jake.”
I froze.
I would’ve known Maverick Fox anywhere. It didn’t matter that his voice was a little gruffer and a little deeper than five years ago. It still slid down my spine the same way it always had, familiar and devastating all at once. Five years had changed so little. My heart stumbled, unsteady and uncertain.
