“I know, I know.” I add a shadow to Pierce’s jawline, avoiding her eyes. “It’s just…every time I think I’m past caring what he thinks, he shows up, and I’m twelve again, showing him my drawings and watching him look right through them because they weren’t the academic essays my perfect brother wrote on how to make rich people richer—but legally.”
Alli moves closer, her shoulder pressing against mine. “You’re not twelve anymore. You have a job you’re actually good at, friends who love you, and talent that anyone with eyes can see.”
“Anyone except him.”
“Then that’s his loss.” She squeezes my arm. “You don’t need his approval to be successful. You just need to believe that.”
I laugh softly, finally looking up at her. “When did you get so wise?”
“I’ve always been wise. You just don’t listen.” She grins, then nods at my sketchbook. “Now, are you going to tell me why you keep drawing your grumpy boss, or should I start making assumptions?”
My cheeks warm as I hastily flip the page. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t push, but her smile says enough. “Come on. Let’s figure out what you’re wearing to this meal. If you’re facing your dad, you’re doing it looking like the successful, beautiful man you are.”
I stare at her for a long moment, then sigh. “Fine.”
An hour later, my closet looks like it’s been attacked by a tornado with good taste but poor impulse control. Alli stands in the aftermath, holding up shirts like evidence at a crime scene while I fidget with my hair in the mirror.
“My dad won’t care what I wear,” I say as she tosses aside another rejected button-down, “because he won’t look at me anyway.” I tug at a stubborn curl in the mirror.
“Then dress for yourself,” Alli says firmly, holding up a charcoal blazer that somehow manages to look both professional and creative.
We settle on jeans and a T-shirt, with my favorite leather jacket over the top. It’s worn in all the right places, comfortable like armor.
I practice my unaffected face in the closet mirror, the one I wear to family functions and father-son interactions. Shoulders back, chin up, smile careful but not too eager. It’s a mask I’ve perfected over years of disapproving looks and dismissive comments.
“I know you said you would go, but you don’t have to, right?” Alli asks softly, sitting cross-legged on the floor.
“Yes, I do. Because if I don’t, he wins.”
Sunday morning arrives too quickly, bringing with it the familiar dread of family obligations. I wake to sunlight streaming through my bedroom window and lie there for at least an hour, staring at the ceiling, rehearsing conversations that haven’t happened yet.
By the time I’ve showered and changed three times because, of course, I doubt the choices we made yesterday,I’m running late and still not sure if I look like a successful adult or a kid playing dress-up.
The ride to my aunt and uncle’s restaurant, Lusitana, gives me time to decompress and get ready to face my father. Maybe I should count my blessings that my brother isn’t coming. He’s probably busy being a successful something-or-other, as well as my father’s favorite son.
Lusitana glows like a jewel box, all warm light and polished surfaces. Uncle Jack and Aunt Carla’s pride and joy stands as a testament to following your dreams, something my father has never quite forgiven them for encouraging in me.
I don’t come here as often as I should.
Uncle Jack sweeps me into a bear hug as soon as I’m through the doors. “There’s my favorite artist!” His voice booms through the entrance, drawing looks from the other diners. My father stands behind him with an expression that couldn’t express his disappointment in my outfit more if he tried.
“Hello, Thatcher. I see you’ve chosen casual attire.” No greeting, no “how are you,” just immediate disapproval.
Nice to see you too, Father.
My shoulders curl inward automatically, but Uncle Jack’s hand stays warm on my back. My cousins are already seated, Noah, Adam, and Lex, and their respective partners, Lior, River, and Emery, forming a supportive circle of encouraging smiles and subtle nods.
“Tobias just made partner at his firm,” my father announces to the table at large, as if he’s continuing a conversation I wasn’t present for. “Youngest in the company’s history. You could take inspiration from your younger brother, Thatcher.”
The wine glasses catch the warm glow of the restaurantlights, bringing back memories of sneaking extra desserts with Mom while Uncle Jack pretended not to notice.
Aunt Carla appears at the table with a platter of croquettes, her warm smile a stark contrast to my father’s coldness. “Meatball, sweetheart, you’re too skinny. Eat.” She sets the plate directly in front of me, her hand squeezing my shoulder. “I made extra of your favorites.”
“Thanks, Aunt Carla.”
She shoots my father a look that could curdle milk. “Edward, try the croquettes. You could use some warmth in your life.”
