“Headache,” Winter said. “I’ll catch up with you guys at breakfast tomorrow.”
“Winter, wait,” Gavi called after him.
But she didn’t make a move to follow him, as if she knew her words were futile, and he didn’t make an effort to say anything in return. He just stepped away from the booth and, without bothering to see if Sydney was following him, turned from the rest of the festivities and back toward the elevators.
15The Reason You Strive
Their hotel floor was quiet and empty, a stark contrast from the booming celebration upstairs. Winter’s ears were still ringing as he stopped before his door, swiping it unlocked with his key and stepping into the hallway of his suite. Everything around him seemed to be rippling, as if submerged—the side table in the hallway was made of moving lines, the view from the windows shimmered and trembled. He blinked and steadied himself against the wall.
Nothing felt real anymore. Not the reason why he was here, not the mission he was on, not the people around him. He hadn’t seen his father in at least five years, hadn’t even heard his mother mention him. How could his father be back now, barreling into his life like a nightmare?
He closed his eyes. His room disappeared, and in the darkness, he saw himself standing once again in his childhood bedroom, his head hanging as he stood before his father. The man had just found a drawer full of lyrics that Winter had scrawled on notebook paper. He held them up, then tossed them unceremoniously in the trash.
What a waste of time,he’d said.Who’d want to listen to you?
His father had hated his love for music, had taunted and scolded andridiculed him for it his entire life. It seemed impossible that he was the author behind the tell-all book, that the same man who had thrown away his music could now stand to make millions off of it.
On a whim, he took out his phone. His father’s number was no longer on it, but he could remember it all the same, and now he dialed with a shaking hand, wondering if it would still reach him.
It rang for so long that Winter was ready to pocket the phone again—but the ringing stopped at the last second, and his reflection disappeared to make way for an older man.
They both stared at each other.
Winter looked exactly like him. It was the quality that had both vaulted him into global fame and destroyed his relationship with his mother—Winter had inherited the same lush hair and dark, thick-lashed eyes, the same subtle grace in his walk, the same smile that could shift between shy and mischievous. His mother couldn’t even look at Winter without remembering the traumatic relationship she’d had with the man, couldn’t be in the same room with Winter without wanting to leave, couldn’t tell Winter she loved him without feeling like she was validating a marriage that she regretted with her entire soul.
His father recovered first, the surprise on his face fading into a sneer, the cold glint in his eyes something that Winter, thankfully, hadn’t inherited.
“Well,” the man said. “What a surprise.”
“You’re releasing the tell-all?” Winter replied, the words tumbling from his lips in a hoarse, angry rush. “You’re the author?”
His father turned away, as if busy with some task in his house, then looked back up at Winter, unconcerned. “Did your girlfriend confess everything to you?”
Everything in Winter’s chest felt like it was bubbling up now, years of suppressed rage and grief and loneliness. “Leave her out of this,” he said. “I figured it out myself. Pull the book.”
His father lifted an eyebrow. “We don’t speak for five years, and this is the first thing you say when you decide to call?”
There was always something manipulative in his father’s voice, a disappointment that made Winter feel like he was a child again, that he was at fault no matter what they were talking about.
He gritted his teeth. “I wasn’t the one who chose to leave.”
His father sighed. “It’s a shame that the first conclusion you jump to about the book is so negative. The book isn’t a hit piece on you.”
“Then what is it?”
“I want to set the record straight about me, given your status as a public figure. I deserve to tell my side of the story.”
“I’ve never talked about you in interviews.”
“I hear there are rumors about me based on music you’ve written.”
“People can assume whatever they want. I’ve never written a song about you.”
“How about this.” His father’s voice turned compromising, even consoling. “Let me send you a copy of the manuscript. I’ve been meaning to do so. We can sit down together, catch up properly instead of abruptly on a call like this. We can decide what you like and what you don’t. Maybe you can fill in a few details?”
“No, how about this. You pull the book and return the money you were paid in advance.”
At Winter’s hard tone, the man narrowed his eyes. “I’m your father.”
