Lusitana’sfamiliar smell wraps around me as I push through the door, garlic, olive oil, and bread baking. The first person I see is River, Adam’s fiancé and the restaurant’s manager.
“Meatball!” His face lights up before shifting to confusion. “What are you doing here? It’s not family dinner night.”
“I asked my dad to meet me for lunch.”
River’s eyebrows shoot up. “Does this have anything to do with yesterday’s visit from your cousins? Adam came home buzzing about some kind of intervention.”
“Their visit helped me get my thoughts straight,” I admit. “I needed to see some things clearly. I’m here to meet my dad.”
River nods and leads me to a quiet table near the back, handing me a menu I’ve had memorized since childhood. “Good luck,” he says, squeezing my shoulder before heading back to the bar.
My phone buzzes again. Pierce’s name flashes across the screen for the seventh time this morning. My thumb hoversover the answer button, but I force myself to decline the call. I can’t talk to him until I have a solution, until I know for certain that I can offer him more than just longing and broken promises.
I check my watch. Dad should be here any moment. The menu blurs in front of me, but I couldn’t pick something to eat even if I wanted to. My stomach is twisted in knots so tight I’m not sure I could keep anything down.
The door opens and my father walks in, his posture as rigid and commanding as always. Thatcher Edward Charles II surveys the restaurant like he’s assessing a business acquisition before his eyes land on me. He crosses the room with purposeful strides and slides into the seat across from me.
“Thatcher.” He doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “Have you finally come to your senses? Are you here to discuss the position at Tobias’s firm?”
I open my mouth to say yes, to swallow my pride and accept the lifeline he’s offering. But something stops me. A question that’s been burning for years, maybe my whole life.
“Why am I such a disappointment to you?”
The words hang between us, raw and unfiltered. My father’s expression shifts, and for the first time in my memory, I can’t read him.
“Thatcher—”
“No, I need to know. I’ve spent my entire life feeling like I’ve never been good enough. I’ve never measured up to whatever standard you’ve set. What did I do wrong?”
My father is quiet for a long moment, his fingers tracing the edge of his water glass. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer than I’ve heard it in years.
“Do you remember when you were seven, and we had you tested?”
“Tested?”
“Your IQ. You were incredibly precocious, reading at an advanced level, solving puzzles that stumped kids twice your age. But you also seemed to attract chaos everywhere you went. Bizarre incidents that defied explanation. Your mother and I were worried.”
I think back to childhood memories of broken vases I swear I never touched, of science experiments that somehow caught fire. All those things were explained. I just always had very bad luck and managed to touch something I shouldn’t, even when I tried not to.
“The test came back showing you were extremely intelligent,” my father continues. “Off the charts, actually. But that didn’t explain the other things. So we decided we needed to foster your analytical abilities, channel that brain of yours toward something structured and stable.”
“You wanted to fix me.”
“We wanted to help you.” He sighs. “But it feels like you’ve spent your entire life fighting against anything structured. You graduated from college with top grades, Thatcher. You could have done anything. Yet you insist on being a starving artist.”
“Is financial success really that important?” I ask, the frustration building. “More important than happiness?”
“Happiness doesn’t pay bills.”
“Mom was happy. You were happy when she was alive. We were a happy family.” The words come out sharper than I intended. “When did money become more important than that?”
My father’s face changes, something cracking behind his composure. Before he can respond, my phone erupts with Alli’s ringtone.
“Sorry, Dad. I have to get this.”
He nods, so I answer the call.
“Meatball, I need you to come home right now.” Her voice is breathless, panicked. “Something really bad happened. I need help.”
