I readjust my glasses and lean forward on my toes, closer to his desk. “Good, sir.”
“I hope so. Since you insulted my friend and switched out of his class. Remember that?” He looks at me for barely a second. Pointed through his lashes and impossibly cold.
I fucked up. I feel it before he says it.
“I remember.”
And I forgot to find said professor at the mixer last week to apologize. It was at the top of my list of things to do for my father, and I forgot.
He doesn’t, though.
“Do you remember what I asked of you? Or do you intend on disrespecting himandme?”
I have his full attention now; Papers tossed on his desk, near the framed pictures of him and his favorite business clients. The people he cares about the most in the world.
I suspect they know exactly what my father wants to hear. Most of the time, I’m pretty good at that, too. Not lately.
“I-” It’s a trap. Either way I’ll get reprimanded. Wrong for remembering, wrong for forgetting. Always wrong.
“Which is it?” His desk chair loudly scrapping against the tiled floor acts as a command to brace myself. “Are you dumb or are you stupid?”
My temples are starting to throb. I want to be honest. It was a mistake, and a small lapse in memory doesn’t justify such harsh things said to your son. But I’m not strong enough to speak my mind.
“I apologize, sir.”
“You and these fucking apologies. Tell me what an apology does for me. Does it un-waste my time? Does it have a conversation with my friend, and explain to him why you possibly decided to switch your classes?”
“No.”
“No, because you were supposed to do that. Now tell me why you haven’t had a conversation with him—like I told you to—and what could possibly be so important that you forget the one thing I ask of you?”
In the safety of my own mind, I yell at him. That in my first month of grad school, visiting a man who has no importance to me doesn’t fall anywhere near the top of my priorities. Especially not when the only reason I’d give him any attention at all would be to apologize forswitching classes.
I forgot because of everything that happened at the mixer. Being ambushed by one of his weird fanboys, meeting other professionals in the department who recognized me, so I felt like I had to put on the Perfect McCarthy Son act to impress them.
And, mostly, being around Rosie. When I’m with her, talking about minuscule things that make us happy, it gets easier to forget my father. Him and his pointless “tasks” are filed on the opposite side of my brain.
I don’t say of this, though.
I’m dutiful and well-polished, and not at all brave.
“I apolo-”
“If I hear one more fucking apology come out of your mouth, Locke, I will make your life a living hell. I’ve been nice enough to give your shortcomings the benefit of the doubt. Shit like thismakes me think it was pointless, because you’re still becoming a screw-up.” He points a finger at me, and I glance down at his foot. Still.
I feel sick.
I never thought the way my father treated us was normal, but in recent years I’ve begun to understand how horrible he is.
I don’t know whether I’m angrier he’s being so cruel to me, after I’ve spent my entire life trying to satisfy his expectations, or if I’m angrier at myself for expecting more of him.
A hand comes up to his graying hair, tugging while he shakes his head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you. How am I supposed to trust you with this company if you can’t do the things I ask?”
My jaw tightens. Aside from this, I can’t think of anything he’s asked of me I haven’t fulfilled. He’s acting like I don’t have over twenty years of mindless loyalty to him behind my name.
I don’t say anything.
“One semester. You get this one semester,” he says, holding his finger up for emphasis. “I don’t have more time than that to spare. Grant is still being difficult about joining the company, and if you’re going to be another son I can’t rely on, then what do I keep you around for?”
