Page 6 of My Real Love Affair

“About what, specifically?” I asked, though I knew exactly what he meant. The recording. The reporter. The latest in a longline of Austin Bancroft fuckups that had made their way into the public eye.

“Don’t play dumb with me, son. It doesn’t suit you.” He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto mine. “A reporter, Austin. You called a reporter and told her that our family name means nothing to you. That you’re just happy to spend our money.”

The disappointment in his voice cut deeper than I wanted to admit. “I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was saying.”

“You’re always drunk!” The words exploded out of him, and for a moment, the careful control slipped. “Do you think this is a game? Do you think the Bancroft name is some kind of joke?”

I wanted to tell him that sometimes, yes, it did feel like a joke. That carrying the weight of his success and expectations was exhausting when you were the family disappointment. That being the youngest Bancroft son meant always being compared to brothers who seemed to have been born knowing exactly what they wanted and how to get it. They were all successful in their own right. Even those that had been screwups were getting their shit together.

Instead, I said nothing.

“I thought things were different after Christmas,” Dad said. “I thought you were finally ready to be part of this family again.”

There it was, the hurt beneath the anger. Christmas had been different. There had been tentative conversations. And I did feel like there had been genuine forgiveness for past transgressions.

Apparently, he thought I was going to transform overnight into the perfect Bancroft son. Drop my head and fall in line like all my brothers had eventually done. When I continued living my life exactly as I always had, the disappointment had crept back in.

“I’m not like them,” I said quietly, nodding toward Cash without looking at him. “I’m not like any of you. I never have been.”

“I know that.” Dad’s voice was softer now, almost gentle. “You think I don’t see that you’re different? You think I don’t know that you march to your own drum?”

The admission caught me off guard. In thirty years of disappointing him, I’d never heard him acknowledge that I might be fundamentally different rather than fundamentally broken.

“But different doesn’t have to mean reckless,” he continued. “Different doesn’t have to mean embarrassing your family every time you leave the house. I’ve given you space to grow. I hoped you would figure it out.”

“I don’ttryto embarrass anyone.”

“Don’t you?” Cash’s voice cut through the room like a blade.

I turned to look at him. “No, I don’t.”

“From where I’m standing, it looks like you go out of your way to make headlines for all the wrong reasons.”

I stood up, anger flaring in my chest. “Not everything I do is about this family, Cash. Sometimes I’m just living my life.”

“Your life affects all of us,” Dad said. “Whether you like it or not, you carry the Bancroft name. Your actions reflect on the family.”

This was the part I’d never been able to escape, no matter how far I traveled or how hard I tried to carve out my own identity. I was always Austin Bancroft first, individual human being second.

“I don’t know what to do with you anymore, Austin,” my father continued, and for the first time, I heard genuine defeat in his voice. “I’ve tried everything. Patience, consequences, distance, reconciliation. Nothing seems to work.”

I’d always known I was a disappointment but hearing him admit defeat felt like watching the last bridge between us collapse.

“So I’m handing the reins over to Cash,” Dad said, settling back in his chair with the air of a man who’d just made an executive decision. “If anyone can figure out how to manage you, it’s your brother.”

I turned to stare at Cash, who was wearing an expression I couldn’t quite read. “Manage me?”

“That’s right.” Cash straightened his tie with deliberate precision.

“Manage me?” I repeated. “I’m not fucking five. I haven’t needed a babysitter in a long time. I don’t need to be managed.”

“We’re attending Sophie Plume’s wedding on Saturday,” Cash said as if I hadn’t spoken.

“We are?” This was news to me. I hadn’t even known Sophie was getting married, much less that I was expected to attend.

“We are,” Cash corrected. “And you’re going to be on your best behavior. You’re going to smile, shake hands, make pleasant conversation, and under no circumstances are you going to do anything that could even remotely be construed as scandalous.”

I laughed because the whole situation was absurd. “And how exactly do you plan to ensure that? Got a muzzle you plan on putting on my face?”