I open the door, and Dad stands there in his aviator sunglasses in a button-down shirt, jaw tight, nostrils flared. He looks past me and scans the inside of the house.
“Where is he?” he demands.
I stare him down. “Excuse me?”
“Your husband,” he bites out, looking murderous. “Where is he?”
I step out onto the small front porch. “No,” I say calmly. “You’re not talking to me like this.”
His mouth tightens, and he opens it to speak.
“Stop,” I say, sharper now as I hold up my hand. “You don’t get to barge into my life and interrogate me like I’m some little child.”
We have a silent standoff where he glowers at me and I glower right back. When Dad gets stressed, he acts like a prick. We’ve had our fair share of battles at work. This one is a little more complicated, but one we can navigate through, nonetheless.
“You’re behaving like a little child,” he says, gritting his teeth. “You think your little stunt doesn’t affect anyone but you?”
I laugh once, and it’s short and humorless. “You’re out of line.”
That catches him off guard.
“You’re embarrassing the family. Marrying a bartender. Some random stranger,” he growls.
“Careful,” I say cautiously. “You’re starting to sound like Mom. Like a royal bitch.”
“Guess you think you’re running things now, do you?” he challenges.
“I know one thing I’m running, and it’s my own life. You or anyone else do not get a say about my life and what I do,” I say evenly.
His face darkens. For a flicker of a second, I see a flash of uncertainty. Guilt. There’s hope for him yet.
“Go back to your hotel,” I say, pointing in the general direction of town. “Get your shit together. And call me when you’re calm.”
He glares. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
“I absolutely do,” I say, “because I won’t be spoken to like that.”
The silence stretches between us, and he turns sharply and walks toward his car. He yanks open the door, slams it shut, and peels away from the curb.
I stare until he’s gone.
Then I look over and see Wilby staring at me from the front yard. He must have come over from Birdie’s when he heard the commotion.
“That was,” he says slowly, “so scary.”
Maybe for Wilby. Not for me. My father can be a hothead, but he’s still my dad. We’ve come to blows over many things in the past and always came through to the other side together.
“He’s going to stay at his hotel until he can speak nicely,” I tell him.
I exhale, the adrenaline, finally letting down.
“Damn,” Wilby adds. “I almost peed myself. I can’t believe he came here.”
“There’s going to be a board meeting,” I say to Wilby. “Set it up.”
Wilby sighs. “I’m on it.”
“It’ll be a quick trip. We’ll take the jet with Dad.”
